You Are My Sunshine
by iamconstantine
Summary: Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne? (In which Peter Parker is Tony's biological son)
1. Chapter 1

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the _one _thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy's law, Finagle's law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: "Shit happens."

For example, at age nine, Tony was playing with (that is, disassembling) toy robots and cars when he was told to get ready for the day. Almost brushing his teeth reminded him that he hadn't eaten breakfast yet. Watching bacon sizzle in the pan reminded him that he'd left his jacket on a computer exhaust. Tossing his jacket into his room, atop all the disassembled pieces, reminded him to go check if his favorite T-shirt had been washed yet. Checking on his T-shirt, he passed by a window and saw snowfall. Seeing snowfall, he went back to his room to grab his jacket. Having forgotten about the disassembled toy pieces, he blindly grabbed his jacket and pierced his palm on a screw. Lo and behold, now he has a tiny scar on his palm.

The chain of events were not illogical, but there was no chemistry, no formula. The butterfly beat its wings, the domino tipped over, the snowball began to roll. Shit happened.

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

Tony was thirty-one years old and was at one of such a long, long list of charity balls that he had to remind himself just what charity it was for several times throughout the night. There were men in three-piece suits and women in long, flowing dresses. Alcohol was pouring from every bottle and he swore there was a band blasting music at every other corner.

Tony was doing what he typically did at these balls and galas: spacing out. Rhodey was going to be flying in soon and he wanted to treat him to an unnecessarily expensive dinner, but couldn't decide which restaurant would be best. He was sipping on a glass of red wine and wondering if he had or hadn't tasted its kind before. A woman in a deep-cut crimson dress was eyeballing him across the way and he couldn't tell if there was a wedding ring on her finger or not. And, of course, plans. Plans for machines, plans for Stark Industries, plans of public speeches and award ceremonies, plans for this and that and whatever else.

Enter the tray of champagne, sudden and jarring, knocking over his shoulder and drenching his…geez, which one was this again? Armani? Dolce & Gabbana? Didn't really matter, he guessed.

It had happened before and it would happen again. As per the norm, there are gasps and groans of sympathy, the clinking of glass hitting the floor, and a profuse stream of _"Oh my god, Mr. Stark, I am so sorry! I am so, so sorry!"_

Tony, meanwhile, just shook off the droplets that had trickled down his fingertips. "You're fine. It's fine. Just two thousand dollars, no worries."

"I'm so sorry!" The waiter looked on the verge of tears, like he was staring a gun down the barrel. "I wasn't looking, I wasn't—I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Hey, you got a manager I can talk to?" The sudden blueness of the poor guy's face was worth it, and Tony laughed and clapped his shoulder with his champagne-sticky hand. "That was a joke. Point me to a bathroom, then find a place to put your head between your knees."

He was directed to the bathroom while the guy was still struggling to breathe. He walked in and was struck with the realization that hey, he'd been in this place before and somehow not known it. He recognized the porcelain faucets and gold lining of the floor tiles. Not that he was marveling in the scenery. Nodding to the woman standing in the corner, he moved towards…the…

Tony looked back. Yeah. Woman. Definitely a woman. Short, slender. Smooth brown hair that fell to her shoulders, round green eyes. Perma-dimples and a little beauty mark on her chin. Like most of the female waiting staff, she's dressed in a black pencil skirt and white blouse. A little black ribbon is tied in her shirt collar.

While he was staring, she just nodded at him with her hands behind her back.

Tony clicked his tongue. "Hello."

She did the same nod with a bit more sarcasm.

Tony pursed his lips and looked around the bathroom. There was no one in there but them. Urinals lined the wall. He was not lost.

He looked back at her with a grin that was only half-forced. "Are you my tour guide?"

"Your assistant." She reached to the little gilded cart pressed against the wall, picked up a little bowl filled with pinkish little candies. "Mint?"

Lips still pursed in a half-forced smile, Tony pointedly plucked one from the bowl and tucked it away. Another rehearsed nod.

Tony pointed past her head. "I'm not to assume there's a forty-odd man in the ladies' room, am I?"

She shook her head. Her brown hair swayed around her shoulders. "There's a lady in the ladies' room."

"That makes perfect sense."

"Doesn't it?" She mimicked his smile, but when he kept staring her down, she dropped it into a more halfhearted one. "Mens' room attendees get better tips."

Tony raised a brow. "Is that what you wrote under 'why do you wish to work at this establishment'?"

"That's what I told Craig when I told him why I wanted to take his shift tonight."

"So what does Craig get?"

"A whole cheesecake from the kitchen."

"That's it?"

"You must not have tried it."

Tony tipped his head in a _Fair enough _nod and turned for the sink. Quickly but smoothly, the woman reached over and turned on the faucet for him. Then, as Tony cut it off, waved his finger no-no, and turned on the other, she frowned.

"Cold water for champagne, hot water for red wine," he told her. "Mark that down for future reference."

She nodded with fake grace. "Is this coming out of my tip?"

"I figured I'd bend the curve and not give you one." Tony let the warm water set its way in—took the cloth from her when she offered—even though it wasn't going to do any good. This was just going to make it .01% less sticky for the rest of the evening. "How's that working out for you, by the way? I'd think they'd be stiffing you, am I wrong?"

"Yes, actually. I'm doing pretty good. I think me just standing there actually 'stiffs' them."

"That's horrifying."

"It's a living."

Tony snorted and she huffed a laugh. Having done all that he could, he shook the last bit of water off his sleeve and took the towel she handed outward to him. He "scrutinized" her work of folding it up after…and tossing it into the washbin without looking.

"Serving hors d'oeuvres must get an abysmal pay rate," he told her. "If standing here and watching guys answer Mother Nature's call is the better alternative, I mean."

The woman raised her hands up in a "don't ask me" way. Her dimples only deepened on her face. "I did my research. Turning on faucets and handing out mints gets about thirty cents more than handing out smoked salmon on crackers."

"Ridiculous."

"I know."

"Ludicrous."

"Right?"

"Unacceptable, so: I'll tell you what." Tony reaches into his breast pocket and picks out a twenty. He always liked to tip waiting staff at things like these; more than half of them were trying to make ends met. Lord knew this woman was pulling extra weight. "I'm going to give you Andrew Jackson for your trauma, and if you can manage to get your way into the kitchen and snag me some of that red wine, I'll swap it for Ulysses S. Grant."

She took it with her brows knit together in a contemplative look. "What about Ben Franklin?"

He tipped his head. "Throw in that cheesecake and have it be as good as you say, and I'll see if I can set up a meeting between you two."

* * *

Her name was Mary Fitzpatrick, she was twenty-six, and fit in with much of the other waiting staff: struggling to make ends meet in Queens.

Things had never really been great for her, though she more stated this than lamented about it. She'd been in foster care for practically her entire life, with a few good loving families, one or two money-seekers who dropped her just as soon as they'd picked her up, and most strangers who treated her well enough but weren't willing to take her in for good. Her last family had even paid her way through community college, but after that, she was on her own.

At the very least, she had a good circle of friends who'd helped her to her feet more than once. Richard, in particular, she'd known for years now and knew she could rely on in a heartbeat. She'd thought for a long time that they might end up as more than friends, but now that Richard had taken a job on the other side of the continent, that had apparently gone out the window.

Again, she did not cry and wail this to him—and thank God for that, because Tony has had more than one woman break down and weep the cruelty of life to him. Tony usually tried to call up one of their friends, maybe suggest therapy, and let them be. Mary, however, had been toughened, not broken, by her troubles. She wasn't cold and unfeeling, just accepting in a somber sort of way.

Tony listened without prying. He changed the subject subtly, more to make her feel better than for his own disinterest. Mary Fitzpatrick was _not _disinteresting, not in the slightest. Tony was not going to complain about his many encounters he's had with women over the years, of course not. He was the instigator more often than not. But more often than not, those encounters were fleeting and almost business-like. Sure, they'd flirt and laugh and joke with him, but all with the underlying message that it was just for the aesthetic. Soon enough they'd be in bed, the next morning would come, and they would depart like strangers, so there was no point in the extra effort.

Mary, though, she was fun. Tony was having _fun _outside of drinking or craps or roulette or whatever else. This was the kind of fun he had with Rhodey and Obadiah. Light and happy, no worries, just laughs. Mary stole the wine and the cheesecake from the back and rendezvoused with him near the bar. They both eat a slice with their bare fingers, facing away from one another so as not to attract the "Why is Tony Stark talking to a waiting girl?" stares.

The two of them listened to the band and realized they were playing the same two songs back to back. Mary bet he couldn't get them to play "Everybody" by the Backstreet Boys as if he wasn't Tony Stark. It took until the trumpets blast along to _"Backstreet's back, ALRIGHT!" _for her to realize it had worked and she just about snorted wine out of her nose.

Happy found him, extremely unamused that Tony had shaken him off once again, and was more than a little confused when Tony slid half a cheesecake over to him and told him to go nuts. He did leave them be, though, probably thanks to the genuine smile on Tony's face. After the wine is gone, Tony promised that he could name every alcohol and every mix behind the bar by taste and Mary made him prove it.

It was entirely possible that at least a little of the happiness came from the alcohol buzzing through his system, but Tony was positive that the rest was genuine. No, he didn't love or fall in love with Mary. That wasn't something that happened in the span of a few hours. He for sure grew a fondness for her, though. He would not at all minded seeing her again.

They laughed and joked and poked fun at each other while Tony's naming every glass that's slid their way—White Russian, Vodka Sunrise, Lime Rickey, Angel Face, rum and Coke with way too much Coke and not enough rum, please follow the guidelines Bill, you're charging people for more than they're getting.

What happened next was unsurprising, even though Tony wouldn't be able to recall many details later. They got away from the crowd and the music, they were in the back of his car, they were stumbling into an elevator, Mary's lips were smiling and laughing and then they were against his and so on, so forth.

Tony really would have liked to see her again, truly. He thought about that in the few moments before he fell asleep, with Mary's hair ruffled up into a cloud and the city lights shining through the window. It would have been awkward, definitely. Certainly. Horribly. But they could move past that. He could have even hooked her up with a job if she wanted one. Maybe even introduce her to Rhodey. And hey, if at some point down the road they decided maybe a coffee date was in order, so be. If not, so be it. Mary was an awfully friendly woman and being her friend could be awful nice.

That was not how things went. Here was the beat of the butterfly's wings, the tip of the domino, the roll of the snowball:

Tony prepared for this charity event in his Armani-or-whatever suit, hopped into his car, and made it fifteen minutes before getting a security alert from J.A.R.V.I.S. He turned around, expecting to find paparazzi in the front yard or a drone snapping pictures above the mansion roof, and it turned out to just be DUM-E sliding off-track and knocking over a tool cart. He shut DUM-E down for the night, decided that his suit was actually dark blue instead of black so he would need to change his tie, and did so. Around this time, Mary Fitzpatrick convinced Craig to let her take his spot as the men's restroom's attendee in exchange for a strawberry cheesecake. Craig took her spot as a waiter, but with every passing moment grew more and more nervous that someone would find out about the switch, and they'd both be fired. So nervous was he that he turned too fast with a tray of champagne and spilled it over the suit of Tony Stark.

This was one of those cases that Tony would return to when he thought of the unscientific nature of fate. He would also think about what might have happened if the following morning went a little more like they usually did. If they had awkward small talk and an awkward goodbye. If he'd had coffee and breakfast ready in the kitchen. If Mary had stayed around five minutes, one minute, three seconds longer. Or even if things went differently and he did offer that job to her, or that introduction to Rhodey, or that coffee date.

Instead, Mary woke up before him at seven o'clock in the morning with a bruising headache and Tony's arm splayed over her back. Confused and disoriented, she sprung from the bad, rattling Tony awake with a groan. She looked at him and her and the bedroom, and through sleep-crusted eyes and a hell of a hangover of his own, Tony saw her put two and two together in her head.

Then she muttered _"shit", _threw on all her clothes, and left before he'd even sat up in bed. He never saw her again.

This was the start of one of the greatest things to ever happen to Tony Stark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Stellavem: **Thank you very much!

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* * *

Mary Fitzpatrick faded from Tony's memory soon enough after their one and only night together, as did most of the women who woke up in his bed. By the next day, he'd let go of her completely. In the years that followed, if he saw red wine or strawberry cheesecake or heard "Everybody" playing over the radio, he would fleetingly think of her and carry on.

He had every reason to believe that she would leave no impact on him for the rest of his life. Time went on. Months and years passed. He met other women on other nights at other parties. Once or twice he even struck up that semblance of fondness for them, but as with Mary, they didn't last.

Tony met Virginia "Pepper" Potts in 2003, hired her as his personal assistant, and realized quickly that he'd struck gold. He'd had personal assistants before, but they'd never lasted, for various reasons. They asked too many questions, they slipped secrets to the press, they screwed up on paperwork one too many times, they just wanted to be associated with Tony Stark and made it clear, etc.

Pepper did not ask questions that didn't need to be asked. She signed the confidentiality agreement and kept her lips sealed shut. It didn't matter what she had to work with, how much or how fast, she always got her work done and had it done right. She knew that she was great at her job and that was why she did it. She wasn't a stick in the mud. Well…not always. Once someone pushed her buttons too far, or openly undermined her skills, she put her foot down and made it clear she wasn't taking it.

Despite Rhodey's teasing, Obadiah's sureness, and Happy's indirect but not at all subtle questioning, Tony made a point _not _to pursue Pepper. Pepper was a beautiful woman and that couldn't be denied, but time had taught him that "Don't date in your workplace" was a rule to uphold. He hoped to keep Pepper with him for a good long while, but if he ended up having to cut her loose, that would be a lot easier without strings attached.

Pepper earned the responsibility of keeping up with Tony's more…"personal" troubles, too. Not just keeping up with the slander and tabloids, but with the dozens of letters and phone calls he got on the daily from strangers with an agenda. More than once, she had to tell one of his former bedmates that no, Tony was not going to "buy their silence", he wasn't going to do them a favor, he wasn't going to pay off their college loans or their new car or this and that. A lot of people who insisted that Tony had promised funding for their projects, most lying, others having taken his promise while Tony was falling over drunk. There'd even been a couple of woman claiming to have carried Tony's children, but all of them had dropped it once it was made clear an investigation would ensue. The worst one was undoubtedly a woman who'd claimed to have Tony's child, only for a quick history check to confirm that she'd never had a baby, ever.

This was where her patience was tested, but she made a point not to complain. She had many things to do every minute and the sooner she could shoo them all out the door, the better. Some of them weren't even all that bad. Sometimes, if their intentions were good—a young entrepreneur seeking some advice, a bedmate only curious to see if their relationship would go further, and more than once just someone who wanted to thank Tony for his inspiration—Tony himself would take over and leave a word or two for them.

The Iraq War began in 2003, and with it yet another boom for Stark Industries, and worldwide reception polarized even more intensely.

Oh, just about everyone admired Tony Stark, and even if you didn't, you _knew _him. You knew that he knew what he was doing and he did it well.

Quickly, though, there are peaceful protests, number after number of opinion pieces, and even the most "neutral" news coverages were leaning on one side or the other. Half—Well, more like seventy-five percent of the world adored Tony Stark as much as they always had. He was a visionary, the modern-day Da Vinci, the single greatest thing to happen to the United States. All he had to do was wink and the world fell to pieces.

That last quarter of the world despised him. Distrusted him. Were even scared of him. War sowed violence, and violence reaped death—and many, many people laid each and every death squarely at Tony's feet.

Murderer.

Fear mongerer.

Baby killer.

The Merchant of Death.

So many times were they said that Pepper was told to just let it go. Slander and "opinion" had a fine line between them. Pepper herself was approached by reporters and journalists, most wanting to know Stark Industries' next role in the war, or if Tony had ever said anything they hadn't heard. Some had even had the nerve to ask how _she _could stand working for a man like Anthony Stark.

Tony, meanwhile, just smiled and waved. No number of protests was going to keep his face off the cover of _Forbes _or stop him from giving speeches at college graduation ceremonies all over the continent.

Pepper was at first perplexed and even a bit unsettled by how easily Tony took all this in. Tony _was _Stark Industries, and Stark Industries was Tony. To be blamed and dragged through the mud day in and day out, to see the war-torn images flashing across the television screens, she just didn't get how he could still shrug it off. It took her a while to understand that, well, that was just what he did. Shrug it off. Oh, he would pioneer the projects and oversee the developments. That was his reason to live. As soon as it came to face that reason's destruction, all he had to do was snip the cord and let it go. Out of sight, out of mind.

Not that Tony's consciousness weighed light. He had plenty of long, sleepless night. One too many people pointing a finger in his face and demanding he face what he'd done to the world. Talk shows spoke his name more times a day than there were stars in the sky, and though he wasn't one to listen into those, he couldn't afford them forever.

One guest on one show—who was he? What show was it?—went on a rant against Stark Industries and hit many of the usual marks: Murder! Immoral! Greedy! Nothing from the usual.

Until he said that, accounting for any and every life lost to whatever bomb, missile, or firearm was manufactured by Stark Industries, Tony Stark was ranked among the world's deadliest mass murderers.

Tony drank a lot that night.

Rhodey had his back, of course. He always did, he was _Rhodey. _Not only his closest friend, but a man whose blood likely ran red, white, and blue. His comfort could only go so far, though, especially when Tony could only see him face-to-face so often. Obie did the best job at getting his mind cleared, at least in moments.

"Just think of how many kids are sleeping safe tonight 'cause of this," he'd tell him with a clap on the shoulder. "Come on, Tony. What are we going to do, stop everything cold? Leave parents unemployed, people without money to pay rent? You should be feeling damn pleased about everything you've got going for you."

Obie probably wasn't the best at comfort, in hindsight, but he knew what he was doing. Of course he wasn't going to ease all of Tony's troubles, and that wasn't his job. His job was to keep him functioning, and he'd been doing it well for more than ten years.

Tony's life went on as it always did, rich, full of energy, always busy. All the while, Tony did not see the hurricane forming by the butterfly's wings, the line of dominoes falling his way, the snowball rolling downhill right for him.

* * *

It was November 17, 2006, and Tony wasn't in a particularly good mood. Development on the Jericho missile had slowed enough to have several board members antsy, necessitating a near-emergency meeting with more yelling and finger-pointing than he'd cared for. Traffic turned his forty-minute drive home into an hour-and-a-half drive. Also, he missed dinner.

He was more than a little happy to be returning to the haven of his mansion at the end of the day. Slamming the door on his Audi, he was at once greeted with J.A.R.V.I.S.'s ever-smooth voice. _"Welcome home, sir."_

"Ciao," he grunted in response.

He took the stairs up to the lounge and immediately found Pepper sitting on one of the couches. Still in her business attire, the typical pencil skirt and blazer, long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She had her tablet in hand and was looking at it with some impatience.

(She may or may not have been playing Bejeweled on it.)

"Sincerest apologies for my tardiness," Tony sighed, throwing his coat on the nearest surface. Pepper at once put the tablet away and resumed her posture, not that he could care any less. "In my defense, I _was _going to get you something at Zales to make it up to you, but the thought occurred that I don't know what your birthstone is. September is theeeeee…?"

"Sapphire."

Tony snapped his fingers. "Thought so."

"And also, that would have made you even later."

"Another excellent point."

"I have everything else taken care of for the day, but I wanted to give you these myself—"

Tony raised a hand, causing her lips to purse. "I'm positive that what you're about to say is incredibly important—"

"Possibly."

"—but I do believe there should be Italian cuisine waiting for me somewhere. Please direct me."

Pepper pointed her pen behind him, to the cardboard box on the counter. Tony went to get some napkins from the bar while Pepper gathered up the papers still sitting on the coffee table.

"Caltech still needs to know if you want to give the speech for their fall ceremony or not."

"Yeah, sure."

Pepper wrote a note. "You got a couple letters today, one from the Huffington Post, one from Time, and one from Miss Lucilia Chambers."

"Lucilia Chambers?"

"You remember when Rhodey last visited and you got Chateau on the dress of the woman sitting next to you? She sent the cleaning bill."

"Gotcha. You can—_What is this?!"_

The sudden alarm and borderline fury in his voice had Pepper snapping her neck up at once. Her pen froze against the paper. "What?"

Tony backed away from the greasy, still-warm cardboard box on the bar counter and pointed at it. He was appalled. Hurt.

"Hawaiian?!"

Relief and annoyance simultaneously flooded Pepper at the once. It was a sensation she was well familiar with when it came to Tony at that point. The "Stark Sensation". "You said to surprise you."

"Yes, not _kill_ me!" With a forlorn sigh, Tony used his index and thumb to pinch the chunks of pineapple from the slices. As if pizza-cooked pineapple was one of the worst biohazardous materials known to mankind. "If only because I am starving, I will choke this down with whatever grace I can muster."

"Am I fired?"

Tony pinched his fingers close together. _This close. _

Taking his first pineapple-free-but-still-tainted-forever slice out, Tony half-mumbled, "Toss the one from Huffington, leave the one from Time, and get Miss Chambers' bill paid."

Pepper nodded, and with a few more quick strokes of her pen, bent down to pick her purse up from the floor. Through a mouthful of pizza, Tony waved his hand at her. "Drive home safe. Really am sorry for the wait."

"It's fine, but I actually have one other thing for you." This 'thing' was a simple sheet of notepad paper scribbled on without elegance. She waved it between her fingers. "Richard Parker wants to speak to you. He won't say what it's about, but since he's called three times in the last day, I think it's urgent."

_Richard Parker. _Rich-ard Par-ker. He knew that name. How did he know that name, and how did he know that he knew that name? Something tickled at the back of his brain, but it was no good.

"Remind me who Richard Parker is?"

Pepper half-shrugged, helpless. "I don't know myself, I thought that maybe you would. He's probably just a journalist, or something. I can toss it if you want."

"No, uh…Richard Parker, Richard Parker…Oh!" Tony snapped his fingers again and pointed at her. "Isn't he a zoologist, or something? Hunter? Something to do with tigers?"

Pepper's eyes narrowed, looked left, looked right. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Are you thinking of the tiger from _Life of Pi?"_

"…I am, aren't I? Huh." Tony waved at her again and went for another bite. "Leave it there; I'll take care of it."

"Will do. I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Stark."

Pepper left, Tony choked down a few more horrible slices of pizza, and he read the letter from Time requesting yet another interview. He made a plan to answer it in the morning, but for the time being, decided a long shower was in order.

He very nearly went to bed not too long after that, but one cursory glance at the coffee table while he was passing by had him spotting the notepad paper still present. Picking it up, all it says is Richard Parker's name, followed by a string of numbers and a note reading _Personal matter(?)_

Tony could have very well just crumpled it up into the garbage bin, because Pepper was probably right. Richard Parker was probably just another journalist. Maybe another angry boyfriend of one of his past bedmates. Hell, even if it was another young soul looking for some word of inspiration from the Man of the Future, he doubted their life was depending on him.

Still, he somehow cannot shake that _he knows who Richard Parker _is, and because of that, pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the string of numbers. It rang three times before picking up.

"_Hello?" _It's clearly a man speaking, probably around his age just from the sound of it.

"Hello, sorry to bother you. My name is Tony Stark and I was wondering if there was something you could help me with, or vice-versa. How are you doing this evening?"

He was fully expecting the length of stunned silence that followed, as well as the telltale sound of someone shuffling in a panic.

"_I—uh—God—Hello! I, uh…Thank you so much for calling me back. It's, um…It's kind of late over here, sorry if I sound so tired. I really do appreciate you calling me back."_

"No problem. I'm getting a little droopy-eyed myself over here, so might I ask what you need? I'm assuming this is Parker, Richard."

"_Yes, sir, Mr. To—uh—Mr. Stark." _There was more shuffling on the other side. _"Thank you so much for calling me, again. I'm sure you get tons of calls every day."_

"Tons of tons." Tony checked his watch. Nine twenty-six.

"_Right. Uhhhh…I…"_

Silence followed without breaking, and Tony checked to see if he'd accidentally hung up on the guy. The call was still going.

"You still there, Rich?"

"_Yes, sir. I…" _The sigh Richard let out crackled against the receiver. _"I really don't know how else to put this, so I'm going to go out and ask, uh—Do you remember meeting a woman named Mary Fitzpatrick?"_

It took two times of rolling her name through his head for Tony to remember, and he remembered well. He remembered the woman who swapped with "Craig" to be the men's restroom's attendee for the evening, the cheesecake, the band playing the Backstreet Boys, the look of dawning horror on her face as she realized what they had done at the end of the night.

A tiny little spark of excitement ignited in his chest, only to be instantly squashed under the weight of dread. He was probably dealing with an angry boyfriend. Even worse, he might have been dealing with another "buy my silence" scenario.

Wait, no. No, no. Mary didn't strike him as that kind of person, even if he hadn't seen her for years now. He realized then and there that this was how he knew Richard Parker—he was Mary's friend, the one she thought she had a future of something more with. Another reason to ask why he was getting this call then and there.

"Yeah," Tony replied, scratching his brow. "It's been a good couple years—five?—but I remember her. Real nice. How is she? She still in Queens, is that where you're calling from?"

Tony wondered if he was about to see Mary Fitzpatrick again, and wondered if he was excited about that or not. He still thought that maybe they had a shot at some kind of friendship. Mary had not been plaguing his mind, he hadn't been seeing her every time he closed his eyes for the past few years. Not at all. Still, Mary had always seemed a good, kindly person to him, and he wouldn't mind seeing how she was doing after so long.

Tony was wondering so much that he didn't realize that Richard had once again gone silent as the wind until he listened in again. "Rich? Hey, are you breaking up on that side?"

"_Mary…She—God, I still don't know how to say this. Mary was—she died in a car accident. Last week. She's—She's gone."_

Shit.

_Shit._

What was Tony even feeling then? Grief? Grief for a person he'd only ever known for not even ten hours, for a person whose middle name he didn't even know? No, it couldn't have been grief. He didn't have the right to it.

Tony felt…disappointed. Not that he wouldn't be able to see Mary again, but _for _Mary. He felt disappointed for her cleverness and quick wit, for her contagious laughter. She had to be, what, thirty-one? Thirty-one, the same age he'd been when they met, and now she was just…gone.

Mary had been young, and kind. Even though Tony was more than aware now that sometimes people just died, and sometimes they died young, and sometimes they died in car accidents, he was still reminded of just how unfair it was. He'd never even learned what Mary had wanted to do with her life, and now she wouldn't get to do it.

God, how he wished there could be a scientific explanation for this, but there wasn't. The answer was "Just because."

On the other side of the line, Richard Parker—who had known Mary for _much _longer than he had and was feeling real, legitimate grief now as opposed to Tony's disappointment—was listening to Tony's silence.

"I'm sorry," was what he came up with. "That is…She was a great lady, she really was. I'm sorry."

Richard's pause told him that it was not okay, but the poor guy was keeping his composure. _"Thank you. I know you might not care, but—"_

"No, no, no. Please. I'm sorry, really."

"_I just figured I'd call you and—No, I didn't 'figure', there's something…I'm sorry, I'm not trying to ramble, I just wanted you to know…"_

"I'm thankful you did. Listen, uh, Richard…" Tony turned in circles, searching for paper, and decided to just use the one he already had. He clicked his pen despite his head still not being wrapped around just what was happening. "I don't want to overstep any boundary, but why don't you tell me an address? I'll send a wreath over there as soon as I can. I know that probably sounds cheap, but—look, I don't know what—"

"_That's not why I'm calling you, actually. I mean, that's very kind of you, we'd really appreciate it, but—just…Listen. Mary left behind a…not really a will, more like a letter, just in case something happened to her."_

"Alright?"

"_So, uh…Mary had—_has—_a son. His name is Peter."_

"Oh." Normally this kind of thing would tick him off to no end, wanting favors after only one evening of knowing him, but this wasn't "wanting favors." Was it weird to ask for? Maybe, probably. Still—Tony wasn't a parent, he didn't know the first thing about being one, but he could understand that your child was your priority. Mary herself had said she'd never been in a good financial place. It might have sounded selfish, but she had a son and she knew that Tony Stark could help him if anything ever happened to her. That wasn't selfish to him. "I got you. I'll…How about I call you about this tomorrow? I can set up a trust fund for the kid, if that's what she wanted. Or did she have something else? Just tell me, I'll take care of it."

"_I—I mean, _alright, _but are you understanding me?"_

"Yeah, I'm understanding you. Just let me know what you need. And, uh…I guess I'll be upfront, too. I'm assuming you're his father? You're Peter's dad?"

"_You are…_not _understanding me. You can set up the trust fund if you want, or I'll call you tomorrow and you can do something else, but that's not what I'm calling for."_

"Alright. What, then?"

"_I just want you to know that I'm not trying to ask anything of you. _Mary _wasn't trying to ask anything of you, she just—this is what was written in the letter, we're just trying to take care of it—"_

"Rich. Buddy. You have _got _to talk to me."

"_Alright. Alright." _Richard took a deep breath. Then another. _"Mary wanted us to call you because you're Peter's father._"


	3. Chapter 3

"Mr. Stark?"

The sound of his name was what pulled Tony back into the present. There were many eyes watching him, eyes on young, expectant faces. Behind them, the Arc Reactor was pulsing with energy, casting all of them in an electric blue light. The floor was beneath his feet and the ceiling was above his head. He was in the present. Needed to focus.

Putting on his classic half-smile, Tony walked closer to the group, looking them all over. High school students, all of them, and most holding the typical oh-my-God-it's-Tony-Stark-I'm-in-the-same-room-as-Tony-Stark look of suppressed awe.

"Sorry, just admiring the view." Tony tapped against the side of the machine he stood before, more specifically his reflection. This earned him a few good chuckles from the kids. "What was that?"

"I was hoping you could tell the students more about the Arc Reactor yourself," the teacher, Mr. Johnson—Johnston? Jonson?—told him. He was also holding the oh-my-God-it's-Tony-Stark-I'm-in-the-same-room-as-Tony-Stark look.

"Of course. The energy generated from the Arc Reactor is clean, reliable, and completely replaces any and all need for nuclear power. No waste, no worry. All those sparks and flashes you see in there is energy in its rawest form. If any of you ever wanted to see a star up close, here it is."

The students nodded along, but the words were like glue in his mouth. Halfway through, he realized that there was no way he was going to be able to keep this up. He couldn't do this, not now.

"Now, I could tell you all the details, but the last thing I need is one of you using that information to best me ten years from now, right? So here's what we're going to do." Tony snapped and waved at the nearest worker to them. "We're going to let you guys have a behind-the-scenes of the behind-the-scenes tour. I'm sure Doctor Benson will guide you all well. Don't wait up for me."

Doctor Benson, whose name was actually Benton (as confirmed by his ID around his neck), nodded despite clearly being unprepared for such a responsibility. He waved the children forward, and they all went none the wiser. Benton's tour-guide-impersonating voice and their footsteps faded away, though Tony knew that at least one of them was watching him head for the bathroom. That was why he kept his hands in his pockets and his posture casual as he stepped away.

Once he was in the bathroom, he snapped the door shut, sat down on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

Tony Stark had a son, and his name was Peter Benjamin Fitzpatrick.

He didn't even fully remember how his conversation with Richard had gone after he'd been told. There were a lot of uh's and um's, and he knew that he was supposed to call Richard later that day. After that he went to bed but didn't fall asleep. He'd been working on autopilot for hours.

Tony should have known this was going to happen, shouldn't he? He had always been very mindful about taking precautions during his many encounters with women over the years, but he'd been drunk for a good number of said encounters, and once or twice he'd let it slip his mind. That one night with Mary was nothing but the memory of a dream now, hazy and blurred.

He just never had the idea that it would actually _happen, _that he would be a _father _and have a _child. _"Tony Stark" and "father" were not terms that went together. Hell, "Tony Stark's father" was already a phrase that left a sour taste in his mouth as it was.

Howard Stark now had a grandson.

_Shit._

Tony was at one of those very rare instances in his life where he had _no idea _what to do next. Most definitely, he'd set the kid up with a trust fund and college savings. That was just common courtesy and plain sense. Besides that, though, he was at a loss. He didn't even know if the poor kid had anyone to take care of him now; Richard hadn't really brought it up. If he did, great, but if he didn't, was it on Tony to find someone to take care of him?

Did the kid even understand what was happening, did he know that Tony was his father?

When was his birthday?

What did he look like?

Damn. Tony hadn't even met the kid and he was running laps around his head.

Tony hadn't. even. met. the kid.

He was probably going to soon.

Someone knocked on the door, and Tony was fully prepared to either ignore them or snap at them to just go away and leave him be. It wasn't one of the students, though, or the many scientists in the building.

"Tony?" Obie's voice was muffled from the other side. "Hey, come on. What's up?"

Tony reached up and unlocked the door without bothering to stand. He knew he looked like a child but couldn't be bothered to care. Obie walked in, three-piece suit and all business, and saw Tony sitting on the bathroom floor with his elbows on his knees.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I am _not _sitting on the bathroom floor, I'll tell you that."

Obie rolled his eyes and locked the door behind him. "Alright, I get it. Sit tight and I'll get something over here as soon as we can manage." Already, he was pulling his phone from his pocket. "There's a deli not too far from here. Soup or sandwich?"

"I'm not hungover."

"Ibuprofen, then. I'll call someone to come take a look at you."

"I'm not sick."

"Well, whatever you do, don't tell me what's wrong. Let me sit here and guess for the next three hours." It was a playful jab, really, but the unamused glare Obie got in response had his brows furrowing. With a sigh, he propped himself up against the sink counter and crossed his arms. Tony wasn't even looking at him. "Seriously, Tony. That Time reporter's going to be here in an hour. You want to cancel, or not?"

Tony ran a hand down the side of his face. Hell, if there was anyone he could trust with this kind of secret, it was either Obie or Rhodey. Obviously the latter wasn't an option at the moment.

Tony could tell him, he just didn't know how to. Obie was watching him and he had no idea where to begin.

"Alright." Tony propped his wrists on his knees again. Took a deep breath. Forced his mind to get its pieces back together. "Here's the deal. A couple of years ago, I met this woman. Her name was Mary Fitzpatrick."

"Okay, I got you. What does she want? Money? Student loans? A fancy apartment?"

"No."

"Hit me. We've dealt with this stuff before, we can knock this out by lunch. What are you in here moping for?"

"She's _dead, _Obie!"

Obie blinked once, twice, three times. "What?"

"She died. Car accident. Last week."

Obie leaned a little heavier against the counter. A hand reached up and scratched at his beard, ran down his neck. "Alright, uh…Is it her family, then? Just tell me what's going on and we'll figure something out. Look, this sounds harsh, but you don't owe her anything, alright? It was one night, wasn't it? Don't feel obligated—"

"It's not about _money, _Obie!" Tony's voice snapped loud enough to ring off the tile walls. He reined himself back in. Obie was staring him down _hard. _"It's not about money, alright? That's not the problem."

"What, then?" Obie waved his hands around, searching. "You have to _tell _me or I can't do anything."

"She had a…kid."

A sigh, short and frustrated, huffed through Obie's nose. "Ah, geez. Alright. I know this is probably bothering you and you think you need to do something, but like I said, _you owe nothing. _I get it, it's a kid, you want to do something, but you don't have to support a kid that isn't even yours—"

"Obie! _It isn't about the money, _how many times—?_"_

"Alright, alright! Does the kid want to meet you, or something? Does he want to go to Disneyworld?"

Every word cut into Tony deeper and deeper, because he wasn't 'the kid', he was Mary's. He was real, not just a problem to figure out. Mary was a real, living person, and this real, living child was _her _child, he was—"He _is _mine."

"What?"

"He's mine. It's my kid. It's my s—" Something hot and lumpy glued itself in Tony's throat. He had to swallow it down and spit the words out. "He's my son."

Obie's reaction was about what he was expecting: ten seconds of not understanding, followed by five seconds of _finally _understanding, followed by a single, low _"What?"_

"Yeah. Her friend called me last night, said she had this letter, or whatever—in case anything ever happened to her. She didn't want me to support him, she didn't want any favors, she just wanted me to know. Well, now I know. And now you know. Congrats."

"Alright. Alright, alright, alright." Obie put his hands on his hips and walked in a slow, uneven circle around the bathroom. Tony just watched him with one brow raised. Already Obie's mind was trying to figure out their next move. "Alright. Alright."

"You don't _sound _alright."

Obie "zipped" Tony's lips shut, thought for a few more seconds, and unzipped them. "I'm going to ask you. What are you going to do next?"

"I mean—" Tony waved his arms around, unsure of what else to do with them. Obie nodded for him to go on but that just made him move a little faster. Finally, he managed to get his tongue untangled. "The funeral is at the end of the week. I figured showing up and, you know, paying my respects is the least that I can do. Just…that would be decent."

"No."

"I—what?"

"Tony. You're really good at thinking, so I'm going to have to ask you to do that for just a second. What do you think is going to happen if _Tony Stark _shows up at that funeral? I'll tell you: that chapel or graveyard or whatever is going to be completely swarmed with paparazzi trying to snap pictures and ask questions. One thing is going to lead to another, and people are going to figure out why you're there and who Mary Fitz-something was to you."

Obie's gaze lacked any sympathy, just the no-nonsense stoniness of a businessman at work. Tony could appreciate that, having logic to balance out the whirlwind of emotions running through his head, but it also kind of unnerved him. He was taking this a little too quickly. Even now, Tony could tell he was turning all of this into formulas and equations. Crunching numbers.

Sadly, though, Obie had a point, as usual. The idea of _not _showing up to the funeral of the…the mother of his child was just as worrying as the idea of actually doing it. Mary would definitely have people there who she cared for and who cared for her, and were grieving the loss of such a great person. They were going to be there to say their final goodbyes and comfort one another.

So, for such a time to be plagued by snapping cameras, strangers leering around every corner, and _"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!" _crying through the air…

That would be bad. Very bad.

"What will you even tell them, Tony? 'Oh, she had my kid after we hooked up at a party a couple years ago—"

"_Obie, I get it!"_

"Good. Now, what about the kid? What do you want to do about him?"

"I'm…" Tony had to think about it for just one second longer, but maybe his mind was already made up. As if he had some part of his mind on standby in case the rest of it was in shock. "I'm going to set up a trust. I know that much. Just…You know, support him in general."

"How do you know he's yours, anyway?" Obie's brows were now furrowed so deeply they'd formed into one hard line across his forehead. "You done a test yet?"

"I'm going to, but I already know."

"_How?"_

Tony sniffed. "Gut feeling, mostly. Mary didn't want anything else but for me to know. That's pretty much all the proof I need."

"That's not proof, that's trust. And with all due respect, you might want to reevaluate it."

"If the test comes back negative, you have my full and earnest permission to say 'I told you so'."

Obie gave him one last withered look before finally stopping his pacing. The conversation was winding down, but it sure as hell didn't feel like that to Tony. He was still thinking a mile a minute. Trying to stop for even a second just made his mind swell like balloon until he had to let it out again.

"Who else knows?" Obie asked, a fair enough question.

"Me, you, Richard Parker, and I'm going to cross my fingers and say the kid. Maybe a few of Mary's friends, we didn't really get to that. Any other questions?"

"One more. How are you going to keep this a secret? 'Cause I know for a fact we don't want the public knowing about this."

Another brutal truth. Peter was probably…four, five? The poor kid had just lost his mother, a pain that no child should ever have to endure, definitely not at that age. The last thing he needed was strangers hassling him every day and night. The whole world would be talking about him. He would see his face on television screens and magazine covers.

It wouldn't matter how much anyone tried to protect him from it, he wouldn't be able to escape. For years and years and years after that, the words "Tony Stark's son" would be branded across his forehead for all to see. Any semblance of privacy would be done for. Camera flashes would follow everywhere he went.

Tony was pretty sure he could trust Richard to keep the secret, and Obie, of course. After that, there was going to be a problem. The _kid _was going to be a problem. He would have no idea why he needed to keep such a secret.

The kid, the kid, the kid. He kept referring to him as that in his mind, but Peter was _his _kid. _His_ son. Tony hadn't even scratched the surface of this whole situation.

"I'm going to go meet him."

He'd said it aloud before he could even stop it. He surprised himself with his confidence. Obie was surprised, too, albeit in a way that teetered more towards bafflement. He may not have even caught what Tony had just said.

Before Obie could say _"What," _Tony finally pulled himself up to his feet, tugged his shirt sleeves straight. He really did need to pull himself together, no matter how confusing this all was. Putting his head between his knees and panicking nonstop about it wasn't going to help anyone, certainly not himself and certainly not Peter.

"I'll cancel everything for the rest of the week, say I have to go visit a family friend. I'll get to see what he needs and how he's doing. I'm going to meet him."

"You don't have to do that."

"Except I do."

"He still might not be yours."

"Except he is." Tony held his hand up, already tired of this conversation that hadn't even gone on for five minutes. It wasn't that Obie wasn't making sense, but this wasn't really his problem. It wasn't his place to be calling the shots. "You don't have to come with me. As a matter of fact, feel free to act as though we've never had this conversation."

"Oh, I'm coming. I have to keep all of this from falling to pieces."

"Happy to hear it." Tony clapped him on the shoulder, but of course Obie only answered with an eye roll. His attempt at fake casualness was only slightly helping, but hey, it was something. He just had to keep it up for the next couple hours. Days. Years? "We'll fly out tomorrow. Bring something to read. Queens is a long fly over."


	4. Chapter 4

**Konoewpl: **Richard and Mary's situation will be given more light in the coming chapters, but no, he and Mary were not quite together. Thank you!

**K. Rynna: **Thank you!

**holyghostofsteve: **Thank you so much!

**anyctophilian: **Coming up, lol!

* * *

The third person to learn the news was Happy, who responded with a low, and very caught-off-guard "Oh."

"Yeah. I'm asking you to come along with me, just in case I need you around. If not, feel free to take the week off. Go to Hawaii."

"No, sir, I'll come." Happy cleared his throat and folded his hands together. It might have actually looked professional if he weren't having to twist in the driver's seat to half-face Tony. "That's my job."

"You have good work ethic, Hap. You'll need to meet us at the airport at seven tomorrow morning. Bring enough clothes to last the week, something to do on the plane, and a positive attitude. 'Kay?"

Happy kept his face carefully neutral at that last comment. "Yes, sir."

"Fantastic." Tony swung his door open. "I don't need to tell you not to tell anyone, do I?"

"My lips are sealed. Won't tell a soul."

"Good man. See you at three."

The limousine rolled away as soon as he stepped out. Following his talk with Obie—and that interview with _Time_, which he thought went well even if he'd had the exact same one a thousand times before—Tony found himself dealing a lot better with the…everything. The storm clouds were finally starting to clear.

He'd already called Richard again, a conversation that was hardly any less awkward than the first. Tony, Obie, and Happy would be flying in at around twelve, after which they'd make a discreet ride over to the apartment complex. Peter, Richard, Richard's brother Ben and his girlfriend May would all be there, as they'd been for a while now. That was really going to be the hardest part, that short distance between the car and the apartment door. He'd be home free after that.

For now, Tony had to keep going as if nothing was the matter. As of that moment, he was heading into Stark Industries Headquarters to see how development on the Jericho project was going. That board meeting the day before had given him the idea that maybe an extra step needed to be taken.

After this, he had a luncheon to go to, and he would be free to go home and pack his things after that. Maybe he'd be able to have a good night's sleep.

Pepper was awaiting him past the door, which gave him pause. It hadn't even occurred to him whether he should tell Pepper or not. He was pretty sure he'd be able to trust her to keep the secret, but he wondered if she even needed to be bothered with it or not. Technically it was part of her job to assist him with personal matters, but he wondered if this would be a little too much. There were personal matters and then there were _personal _matters.

"They're waiting for you inside," she told him as he approached. "Miss Chambers' bill has been taken care of."

"Thank you kindly."

"Have you talked with Mr. Parker already? Is there anything I need to do?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second." One second flat, and Tony's mind was already telling him, _lie, lie, lie. _He could lie. Lying was easy. "Turns out, I do, in fact, know who Richard Parker is. He is a friend of a friend from MIT who is currently going through a personal crisis with which I may be of assistance."

"Alright." It was hard to tell if Pepper was incredulous or not. "Who is it?"

"Benjamin Fitzpatrick." Eh, he could do better, but it would work. He still didn't know if he'd ever be telling her otherwise. "I can't really go into it because it's not my story to give, but just so you know, I am going to be flying out to New York tomorrow morning. I'll be back at the end of the week at the latest. I need everything until then cancelled, and feel free to call me if you run into any troubles on that."

Pepper had already started typing away on her tablet before he was even finished. "Will do. If you come home early, could you let me know as soon as you do?"

"Of course. Also, when you're doing this, I'd appreciate it if you didn't give specifics. Just tell them I'm visiting a family friend and leave it at that."

Pepper nodded again. Her coppery blonde ponytail bounced about. "Understood. Anything else I should know?"

He really did consider just backtracking and telling her the truth. Not there, not in public, but maybe aside. He _did _trust Pepper. He knew she'd keep this and any of her judgements to herself, so he couldn't say why he was so intimidated about telling her. Hell, she'd probably already figured he had a child somewhere at this point.

He'd tell her when it all blew over, he decided. Once he came back, he'd apologize and give her the actual reasoning, and they would move on from there. He'd probably need the help of Pepper Potts to do what he wanted to for Peter.

"Nope." Tony turned away and went half-marching down the hall. He turned his head one last time to call, "I'm leaving you in charge of the mansion. No parties!"

* * *

The flight to Queens almost five hours and was a dismally boring affair. Happy sat reading in his seat, Obie alternated between working on his laptop and popping a question or two at Tony ("What's his name again?" "How old is he?" "Are you sure about this?"), and Tony mostly just snacked on his omelet breakfast, drank champagne, and looked out the window.

Tucked beneath his seat was a present he'd asked Happy to pick up if he could. He could have given the k—_his _kid a thousand dollars' worth of candy, really, but he didn't want to overdo it. Happy had gotten some kind of _Star Wars _toy, he didn't know. It was already wrapped and topped with a bow courtesy of Happy himself. Did Peter even like _Star Wars? _He could only hope.

Tony tried not to wonder too long in fear of getting himself into a downwards spiral again, but some things he couldn't help. He wondered if Peter had allergies he should know about, or any other medical conditions. He wondered how he was dealing without his mother around and only her friends to take care of him. He worried, for a minute, if three strangers showing up out of the blue and lingering around his home was going to scare him. He tried several times to imagine what Peter looked like, but he always came up short. Brown hair was the only thing he could settle on. He'd find out soon, he guessed.

More than anything, though, he wondered what was going to happen after this was over. He was going to see Peter because he felt that that was what he was supposed to do, even if it was just once, even if it was just for a week. Even as young as he was, Peter deserved to have some level of understanding of what was going on. He might not even know or care who Tony Stark was, but he deserved to know that he was his father. Tony was not good at comforting—he really wasn't—but he'd like to give at least a few words of comfort to the poor ki—_his _poor kid!

After that, though…Tony had to admit he had no game plan. He didn't know how he was going to say goodbye. He didn't know how they could ensure that Peter didn't tell his friends or their parents who his father was. The kid (screw it) might try to contact him later, and he had no clue how he was going to handle _that. _Peter also wasn't going to be a five-year-old forever. Ten years down the road, Tony would have a teenager with a _much _better understanding of what had happened and a lot of questions.

Tony would have to cross that bridge when he got to it. That was all he could settle on.

They touched down in the LaGuardia Airport a little after twelve, with an almost twenty-minute drive to the apartment after. There were no cars following after them, not yet, anyway. They'd come in unnoticed as far as Tony could tell. Up front, Happy drove the rented car (just a BMW, just to avoid attention) without a word. Obie…Honestly, Obie looked more and more like he didn't want to be doing this and just wanted to turn the car around and go home.

Three minutes before their final stop, Obie practically threw down the newspaper he was reading and turned to him. Tony, once again staring out the window, actually jumped.

"You don't have to do this," Obie told him yet again. He was insisting now. "Look, you don't even know this Rich guy, it's not like you're going to be hurting his feelings. Just tell him you've changed your mind and you're just going to set up a trust fund."

"No offense, Obie, but why would I say 'no' five minutes after we left and say 'yes' three minutes before we're there?"

"Tony. Come on."

"I once again emphasize you don't have to be here. You want to go to the Noguchi Museum? Go right ahead, I'll buy you in. Pick me up something from the gift store. _I _am going in, and I'm going to meet Peter, whether or not you come along."

Obie let out a long, low, gruff sigh. The hand on his knee clenched into a fist and let go again. "Nope. Let's do this."

"By the way, can I just say that your undying support is really helping me out in this trying time?"

"Give me a break, Tony."

"From what? Does this whole situation offend you? I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I truly am."

"This 'whole situation' is one snapshot away from becoming the cover on every tabloid in every convenience store in America." Obie put a hand on his shoulder, but it was stiff and not at all warm. Something angry sparked in Tony's chest, but he didn't know what it was, and he had to stifle it down. "I'm really not trying to be cruel or come off like I don't care, alright? But we can't _both _be thinking emotionally right now. You can scream and cry and wallow in self-pity however much you want, but I have to keep it together and make sure this whole thing doesn't collapse like a house of cards. In my opinion, we shouldn't be here at all. There's no reason to be. But this is what you want, so we're going to do it, and I will accept my responsibility of keeping the peace."

That spark flared up again, and again Tony could not tell why. He should have been thanking Obie for this, no? He was making sense, someone had to be Tony's mediator right now. At the same time, though, Tony felt that that "sensibility" was teetering awfully close into "apathy" territory. He didn't need Obie to stay still so he could cry on his shoulder, but this wasn't just a PR issue to sweep under the rug as quickly as they could.

As it was, that was when Happy said, "Here we are."

The building was like every other apartment complex in Queens. Tall, brick, sandwiched between other buildings much like it. Inside that building, Tony's son was waiting to meet him. Probably.

"Give me a minute," Happy said, and stepped out way too fast to be casual.

Obie and Tony watched him duck inside the building, and then all they could do was wait. Just as Tony gave himself kudos for not being nervous, he got nervous. Not horribly, there was no sinking stomach or sweaty palms. Suddenly, though, he found himself unable to stop from tapping his foot or twisting his cufflinks.

Obie saw his fidgeting and sighed for what was hopefully the final time. "It'll be over before you know it. Don't worry too much."

"Thanks," Tony replied without a hint of thankfulness.

Happy came back out faster than expected and got back into his seat. Once in, he twisted around with an expression way too serious. You'd think they were going into a battlefield and not an apartment in Queens.

"People are walking around everywhere in there," he told them gravely. "They've got security cameras, too."

So Tony wasn't wrong, this was going to be the hardest thing to do. Ah, well, let it not be said they came unprepared.

He held a hand out to Obie. "Cough it up."

* * *

Walking around with a doctor-style face mask was really convenient when you were as famous as Tony Stark. Once he put it on, donned a ballcap, and shrugged off his blazer, he looked like any other random passerby. If anyone glanced his way, all he had to do was cough like he was carrying the plague, and they would carry on.

It wasn't a wonderful entrance, pretending to be a stranger with a bad cold, but it worked. No one talked to them or glanced their way. Obie didn't even need a mask to go unnoticed. The only person they exchanged words with, period, was the receptionist. Happy did all the talking for them, and that was that.

The lobby became the elevator, the elevator became a hallway, and the hallway became a door with 303 in plated metal numbers.

One door, and that was it. This was happening. Tony took a breath and knocked.

No answer. He knocked again.

No answer. He kno—the door opened, and he pulled his hand back.

The man standing in the doorway couldn't have been any older than Tony himself. Very tall, very much on the lanky side, not very intimidating at all. His eyes were round and as youthful as the tousle of dark curls on his head—he would have looked young if it weren't for his strong jaw and the stubble across his chin.

He didn't seem to understand why they were there at first, but Tony saw the lightbulb go off behind his eyes soon enough. Voice hardly above a whisper, he asked, "Mr. Stark?"

With a glance either way down the hall, Tony lifted up the mask just so.

The guy swallowed and nodded at the same time. "Right. Come in, come in."

The three of them hustled inside quickly. The guy walked with an awkward balance, but Tony chalked that up to nervousness or fatigue. The rest of the apartment gave credence to the latter. It wasn't horrible, really. Very quaint, as far as Queens apartments went. Beige walls, leather furniture, a little kitchen with white cabinets and cupboards. But there were papers spread over the tables, coffee cups left unattended every which way. The pull-out couch in the middle of the room hadn't been made up yet, so it was just a tousle of sheets and blankets. There was a strange poster on one wall and a simple clock on another.

Tony didn't see any framed photos on the walls as they came in. He didn't know if that was good or not. He hadn't seen Peter yet and he wasn't sure if he was ready to see Mary's face, alive and smiling but now gone forever. The only sign of there being a child at all was a single toy car tossed beneath the coffee table.

"Thank you so, so much for coming," the man said again. Even his voice carried an odd youthfulness to it Tony hadn't picked up on the phone. As he very awkwardly locked the door and maneuvered around them, Tony saw his unstable walk once more, and only then saw the walking stick he was holding. He was sprightly, for what it was worth. "I'm sorry this place is such a mess. We've had a lot to do, not too much time to do it."

"Don't worry about it," Tony dismissed. A throw pillow had fallen from the sofa, and Tony picked it up for no real reason. Obie had his hands in his pockets and was meandering silently. Happy was looking this way and that, as if for hidden cameras or even bombs. "Parker, Richard?"

"Flesh, in the." Richard put on a shaky smile and extended a hand towards him. Tony shook it and felt the slight tremor in the fingers. "We really are grateful you came all this way, Mr. Stark. Really, really. Can I get you some coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee will be just perfect."

Richard turned to Obie and Happy—"No thanks" and "With Splenda, please" respectively—and hobbled into the kitchen. As he moved, his pant leg fluttered up for just a moment, and Tony got his answer to his question. Richard's right foot wore a tennis shoe and when the fabric lifted, Tony saw the telltale, stainless metal of a prosthetic.

"It's going to take just a minute," Richard said as he scooped grounds into the coffeemaker.

"That's fine," Tony answered, and realized that he was officially at a loss for words. That wasn't normal for him. He didn't like it. There was an eerie tension in his shoulders, as if he expected Peter to jump out from the shadows and surprise him. He didn't even see any toys, though, let alone the child himself. Clearing his throat, he tried to say, "So what exactly—?"

"Where is the kid?" Obie asked.

Richard blinked as he pressed the button on the coffeemaker, as if he'd forgotten it was four people in the room instead of two. Happy didn't look very comfortable, either. He stood in front of the sofa as if debating whether to sit down or not.

"He's in his room." Richard nodded past Tony to the little hallway behind him. "May and Ben are talking to him, shouldn't take too much longer."

Obie nodded, but was only just beginning his rundown of the situation. "This letter Mary left behind, where is it?"

Richard blinked again. "It's over here—I'll get it—"

"Don't worry about it." Tony waved his hand dismissively, but sent Obie a pointed look. He didn't want to immediately get into the business side of things. That wasn't an icebreaker, that was an ice…_fortifier. _"We'll get into that later."

Obie's jaw clenched. "I think we should really start talking about it now."

"Nah. We have all the time in the world, trust me." He couldn't stop the sharpness in his voice as he finished. They weren't doing this anymore. "I, for one, would like to thank you for calling. Very courteous of you."

Tony regretted it as soon as he said it, because Richard obviously picked up the tension. He just busied himself with getting whatever coffee mugs were still clean from the cupboard. His hands were still shaking just so.

"No problem at all," Richard replied a bit too quietly. "It's what she wanted, so we had to…do it…Uh, if you want to take a seat, feel welcome to."

Happy graciously sat down, but while Tony was awkwardly coming forward, he heard a door behind him creak open. Enter Ben Parker.

It was very easy to see how he and his brother were related. Ben was clearly the elder one, in his forties just by a glance, with a frame that seemed to dwarf his brother's. Otherwise, though, they were one and the same. Tousled dark hair, stubble across a strong jaw, round eyes. The hair at his temples was getting some premature silver.

Ben stood in the archway and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't seem to be trying to glower down at Tony, but the height difference between them gave to that effect. "Mr. Stark."

Tony gave him a nod, not sure of what else to do. "Mr. Parker."

Ben and Richard shared one of those silent but conversational looks that only siblings could share. Tony guessed Ben "said" something along the lines of _You sure about this? _There was no way of telling. There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence only broken by the gurgling of coffee into the pot.

Ben ran a hand down the side of his face and glanced back to the room behind him. Not a moment later, a woman who could only be May stepped in looking about as all-business as her partner. Quite a beautiful woman, with unruly auburn hair framing high cheekbones, but though Tony could tell she was the kind to usually radiate warmth, that was not the case then. Even in denim jeans and a polka-dot blouse, she somehow managed to daunt him. Happy himself shifted on the couch.

May, much like Ben before her, swept the room with her eyes. She couldn't be blamed for her wariness. They were three strangers as far as she was concerned. She knew who Tony Stark was, she just didn't…_know _Tony Stark.

Obie impatiently spoke up. "Is he in there?"

Blinking once, May put on a smile that dripped with sarcasm. "May Reilly, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"It really is," Tony cut in before tension could rise any more. He crossed over to her in one stride, sticking out a hand. "Tony Stark."

"Yeah, I know." Despite her words, her face relaxed just so, and she shook his hand. Ben did the same once they were done with a quick awkward-but-friendly smile.

Richard hobbled over with _three_ mugs in _one_ hand and his walking stick in the other. Happy looked on, impressed, while Obie looked on, confused.

"Red one is for you." Happy plucked the mug away with very careful fingers, and Richard went to the others. "Striped one for you, Mr. Stark."

The coffee was black as night, not the way he preferred, but probably the way he needed. Tony took it with a quick thanks, a fast swig, and a barely-suppressed wince of pain.

May balked. "What the hell, Rich? We agreed that I get at _least _one cup from every pot we make. Do I just sit here and _waste away _now?"

Richard very dramatically extended the last mug over to her. "Indeed, which is why I have this."

"You're too good for me, Rich. Pretend I didn't say anything." May took the mug and drank so much so quickly that Tony passed Ben a silent look of _What the hell? _Ben's look answered _She's made of steel, man, I don't know._ "God bless you, baby boy."

"Good save."

Tony chuckled at the good-natured ribbing between the two, then realized he'd gone a good long while without saying a thing. So he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Were you two friends of Mary's, too?"

_Alright, you should have stayed quiet, mood-killer._

His immediate regret must have showed on his face, because Ben laughed. May gave a smile, too, albeit laced with a more prominent sadness. She tried to hide it behind the lip of her mug.

"Since we were kids." Ben went to get his own coffee out of the kitchen, lightly nudging his brother out of the way to do so. Richard complied with a joking whine. "Mary was always bouncing around foster homes, but we kept in touch. Went to the same community college."

"For two years," Richard cut in, "until he joined his band."

Tony hummed. "Do tell."

"Don't," Ben begged. "Please."

Richard ignored him. "They played one concert and split up due to 'artistic differences'."

"It was more complicated than that."

May chimed in with a "They got into a Godzilla versus King Kong fight that got too out of hand", making Ben sigh in humiliated defeat.

Tony raised his mug. "Godzilla."

Ben raised his. _"Thank you!"_

May turned and pointed to the wall beside her, where the poster was. Tony thought maybe it was a beach view at first, but now that he looked at it, he realized that he literally had no clue in his mind what it was. Colors and shapes were slashed across the paper in the most chaotic display imaginable.

"Mary designed that for their big debut." May winked at Happy. "You've been staring for a while. You like it?"

Happy blinked. Clearly he thought he'd go invisible for the rest of his stay. He replied in an embarrassed mumble. "I thought it was an autostereogram."

May, Ben, and Richard answered all together, at the same time, in perfect unison. "That's what we said."

Tony smiled again and took another burning swig of coffee. He felt more at ease already, but one look at Obie was all it took to raise his hackles again. Obie wasn't glaring at him or anyone else, but he looked so impatient, he seemed to suck the sunlight from the windows. Like a customer five seconds away from asking to speak to the manager. Him typing into his phone only made him look worse.

Tony ignored him, because again, he was just done with Obie's attitude about the whole situation. However, he was reminded of what exactly they were all here for. There were six people in the small apartment when there should have been seven.

"So, uh…" Tony looked around for somewhere to set his mug. It probably wasn't nice to put it on a bookshelf, but there were already two more there, so. Whatever. "Is he still in his room?"

Thankfully, the room did not swell with tension as much as he thought it would. Obie looked a touch bit relieved, even. May gulped down the rest of her coffee, Ben stood straight from where he was leaning against the sink, and Richard started wiping down the island as if the not-even-six-year-old would be offended if he came out to an unclean kitchen.

"Just a second." Ben nodded at Tony as he stepped past him. Footsteps faded down the hall, the door squeaked open again, and Tony heard Ben's voice speaking softly but unintelligibly.

Tony put his hands in his pockets and didn't _force _so much as _wave_ away the growing anxiety. Not even thirty seconds, and he'd be meeting his kid. It wasn't the end of the world, he'd seen this coming for a day now. A full twenty-four hours to be prepared. He could go on talkshows before thousands of viewers and conduct interviews to be printed for millions. This was a teeny tiny misadventure, if anything.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out without thinking.

_From: Obie_

If Richard, Happy, May weren't still present, Tony would have dropped his jaw, raised his arms, and barked _"Are you serious?!" _As it was, he didn't even spare Obie a glance as he opened the message. As far as the others were concerned, he was checking on business.

_Just remember we don't know anything until the test results get in, okay?_

Tony snapped his phone shut and tucked it away. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be reassuring or disconcerting, and he wasn't sure which he felt. He was still pretty confident that yes, this was his kid. Mostly because of what he'd said before, that Mary wouldn't bother just telling him if he wasn't. Partly because of hope, because, well, this was going to be a very awkward turnout if Peter wasn't even his, wasn't it?

Regardless, they _technically _had no proof until those results came in. Legally speaking or otherwise.

One set of footsteps became two sets, one much lighter than the other. Ben said something soft and reassuring. Tony could almost hear a countdown with each step forward.

He could also almost hear Obie's voice, _until we get the rest results in._

_Doesn't matter either way,_ Tony thought. _We'll figure it out later. For now, just be civil and friendly. He's a kid, even if he's not yours. So just—_

Peter stepped into view.

—_yeah, no, he's mine. That's definitely my kid._


	5. Chapter 5

**Belbelanne:** Thank you!

**Konoewpl: **Thank you very much! I don't know if I've said this before, but many other chapters of this story are up on Ao3 if you're interested in reading them.

**poohbear123: **He's coming, just not in this one, haha!

* * *

Mary Fitzpatrick didn't believe in fate, not really.

Oh, she was a fan of good fortune and romance and any time life decided to smile her way. She did think it was funny to look to the past and say, "Wow, how funny is it that doing X led to Y?" But cosmic-level destiny, no, she didn't believe in any of that. Things happened because things happened, not because the entire course of time was already composed and they were all just playing to the beat.

Others did, that was fine. It just wasn't a fundamental truth she held.

Though she had to admit that when she woke up in the same bed as Tony Stark, twenty-third richest man in the world, CEO of Stark Industries, the Modern-Day Da Vinci, the Merchant of Death, _she had some questions._

Mary remembered what happened, for the most part. She'd asked to take Craig's place in the men's bathroom, Stark walked in, they talked, she stole the cheesecake and the wine, they laughed, they joked, they left, they got into a car, they showed up here…Yeah, she could piece together what had happened well enough.

(There was a distant, flickering memory of "Everybody" by the Backstreet Boys being played on trumpets. She couldn't explain that.)

Once she had gotten a hold of her bearings, standing in a hotel room she didn't recognize, naked except for a sheet around her body, Stark (also naked) wiping the sleep from his eyes, regret swallowed her up quick and deep, and she bolted without another word.

Mary would regret it later. Not the leaving part, but the extreme lack of grace with which she did it. She could have at least said goodbye, or give an excuse for leaving, or whatever. "Shit" wasn't a good replacement for "Adieu."

Mary felt sick as she dashed out of the room. She felt sick when she was in the elevator. She felt sick when she walked out of the LaGuardia Plaza Hotel. She felt so sick in the cab she hailed down that she asked the driver to pull over so she could dry heave.

He was nice about it. Gave her water. Cool guy.

It wasn't the idea of spending a night with Tony Stark that had her so ill. Hell, that was the dream of almost every woman in America, wasn't it? He'd been very nice, too. Fun. As charming as she would have thought. As "talented" as she would have thought.

It was that she'd spent a night with anyone, _period. _Mary wasn't a virgin—ba-dum-tish—but she'd never had a one night stand before. She didn't judge anyone for what they did in their bedrooms, but that just wasn't her. She had to _know _the person, she had to _care _about them. She knew zilch about Stark. If something happened to him, and it was on the news tomorrow morning, she wouldn't be weeping in grief. She liked him, yeah. Loved him? Absolutely not.

Mary knew, not too deep down, that part of it was just because he wasn't Richard. It would never be Richard.

The worst thing was, she couldn't really blame anyone besides herself. They'd both been equally falling-off-their-feet drunk. She'd chugged red wine after tequila after Lime Rickey all on her own accord. Even before then, she had been flirting just as much as he had. She saw his lazy grin and the way he leaned in to talk to her and she took it, encouraged it.

Stark was a nice person, though. She didn't know if he was _good, _but he was _nice._ If she didn't want to talk, he didn't push it, and if she did, he encouraged it. Dimly she remembered gentle touches and genuine smiles.

But…come on. There was no past, present, or future for them. They were ships that passed in the night. Years from now she'd look back and say "Man, I can't believe I actually had a one night stand with Tony Stark," then she'd carry on.

For now, though, she would go back to her poor little apartment and tuck away the hundred-and-twenty dollars Stark had given her in the little shoebox in her closet. Her boss would call her to say—surprise, surprise—she was fired. Not great, not bad. She had two other jobs anyway. In fact, not thirty minutes after she got home, she would have another one to go to.

It was one night. That was the end of it.

* * *

Apparently not.

Mary was pregnant.

The thought had only occurred to her once, very fleetingly, while she was filling coffee cups at the Melodia Diner. Fleetingly because she was fairly sure they had used protection. She didn't remember for the life of her, but come on. Surely Stark had wined and dined enough women in his life to take precautions for his public image. Besides, it was _one _night, and she probably wasn't even on her cycle yet. What were the odds?

SPECTACULAR, apparently.

First it was an upset stomach in the morning that she'd chalked up to late-night snacking. Then it was a constant, unending fatigue no matter how much she slept. Being five days late for her period was the final straw that made her buy an over-the-counter test.

Mary wasn't really one to imagine the future often, but she was like most people, having once or twice thought about the milestones in her life. As a kid, she'd fantasized about prom night. After (not) doing that, graduation. After that, having her first child. In hindsight, she'd probably fallen into the Hollywood trap. Like, okay, she knew that giving birth wasn't going to be a clean and pretty dream where all she had to do was scream and cry a few times. Still, she thought that when the moment she held that little pink plus sign in her hands, she'd be sitting with her partner, laughing in pure euphoria, hugging and almost crying that it was finally happening.

Nope. Mary held that little pink plus sign in a bathroom the size of a closet, wearing a _Han Shot First! _T-shirt and bumblebee pajama bottoms with a bit of omelet still on her lip, and the first thing she said was "Oh, _come on!"_

She still didn't believe in fate, but now she was pregnant with Tony Stark's kid. So.

It took a while for the weight to sink in. She remembered all the way back in Sex Ed in one of the many "If You Have Sex You Will Get Pregnant and Die" lectures that a lot of girls just kind of "ignored" their pregnancy. As in, if they didn't think about it, it would just "go away."

Mary did that without intending to, and realized as such when she was washing dishes at the Pepper Mill. It wasn't a horrible Armageddon nine months on the horizon, but she was going to have a _kid. _There was a life growing inside of her—_Ugh, that was so __**weird**_—and that life would become a baby and that baby would become a kid and that kid would become an adult. She had nine months to make doctor's appointments, get a new wardrobe, set up a couple for adoption…This was really happening, but she didn't need this.

She didn't need to wake up every hour of the night to rock her baby to sleep.

She didn't need to worry about check-ups and appointments and making sure the kid got the Flintstone gummies they needed.

She didn't need to worry about sticky hands and a runny nose and vomit on her shoulders.

(Just to be clear, Mary did not in any way, shape, or form dislike children but the simple fact of the matter was that she was _not good _with them.)

She'd decided at the end of the day that adoption was what she was going to do. She could have terminated it, but that just wasn't something Mary wanted to do. She could do this, she'd been through worse. Hell, she could even get maternity leave, huh?

One thing was for certain, though: she would need help.

* * *

May was shocked when she was told, though in her defense, she'd thought Mary was talking about getting a_ pet_, not having a _baby. _("I call my cat my baby all the time, Mary! _It's normal!") _After the initial "Really? Really, really?" wore off, though, she was more than supportive. Heck, maybe even too much. Immediately she was talking about helping her buy new clothes and pick baby names. Even when Mary made it clear she didn't intend to keep the child, she made it clear Mary only needed to call for her to come running. She only asked once who the father was and accepted the answer that it was just "a guy at a party."

Ben was understanding right off the back. Of course he was, he seemed too good to be true sometimes. He didn't ask who the father was, only if he was going to be supporting. He nodded when Mary told him he didn't know and she wanted to keep it that way. He asked if she felt well, if she wanted to see a doctor. He even offered her help if she didn't think she'd be able to afford the things to come. God bless Ben Parker, really.

Richard was…

Richard was confused.

"How?"

Sitting across from him, Mary pursed her lips together. "I ate some bad takeout."

"I—" Richard's Adam's apple bobbed hard in his throat. He looked unnaturally pale and his eyes were blinking hard. Even his metal foot was beginning to twitch beneath the table. You'd think it was _his _kid, the way he was acting. "I mean…Who did…Who was…Who? Who. I'm asking who."

"Just a guy I met at a party." The way Richard's neck snaked back just so had Mary reaching for her tea. Just for the record, Mary had _never_ been a coffee drinker, so her choice in chamomile had nothing to do with May's insistence of coffee being a no-no pregnancy food. "Sorry, let me make it more romantic. _So there I was, a mere maiden of six-and-twenty, standing among shining lights and drinking the most effervescent of drinks—"_

"Fitz."

"I've got nothing, Rich. He was drunk, I was drunk, a stork showed up at my window."

"I…Okay…Uh…Okay, just—Uh. Okay. Alright."

Mary reached across the table and pressed a finger against his forehead. Since childhood—probably since the guy was fresh out of the womb, for goodness' sake—Richard always became a broken record when he got nervous or didn't know how to handle things. In high school, she'd taken to touching his forehead like a reset button, or resetting the needle.

It worked like a charm, as always. Richard took a deep breath, deflated just a bit, and leveled his voice. "How pregnant are you?"

"...Yes."

"No, I mean—How far along?"

"Oh. Uh…about a month, give or take? I know it's hard to—" Mary gestured to her belly, still flat as ever. "—_tell."_

"Okay. So—the _guy at the party, _does he know? Are you two going to…I don't know, do this together?"

An inexplicable, childish, immature flash of anger took Mary over before she could even help it. She tried to cool it, but it was too late. All she could do was barely wrangle her voice from snapping when she said, "No, we are not 'together.'"

"I was just asking," Richard defended, and she knew it was a reasonable question. Sensible, but she was still…hurt. Like the fact that he even thought she'd be with a guy she just met just because…just because… "What are you going to do?"

"Adoption. Just—I can't have a baby. Not now."

"Do you want to meet them after? Like, open or closed? Either's fine! Just—asking."

"I don't know. I only figured out, like, a week ago."

"I could help," Richard offered. He didn't even sound sure. "Foster care is an option—I mean, you _know _that's an option…"

Mary's jaw clenched despite herself. Of course foster care was an option, but it wasn't one she'd considered. Actually, it wasn't an _option, _it was a _possibility. _If she put the child up for adoption, foster care would probably come down the line.

Mary had been in the St. Judas Children's Home for the first five years of her life. Her caretakers were men and women who were friendly, loving, and perfect parent stand-ins but always carried the impermanent title of _employee. _Her pseudo-siblings came from broken families where their parents became the monsters under the bed. If Billy's Daddy or April's Mommy showed up, they had to lock the doors, cover the windows, and all go into the back room until they were gone. Mary loved that home and everyone in it, but she got too attached, and her first time in a "proper" house was a nightmare. She didn't like the new bed in the new house. It didn't matter how many smiles she got or how many apple pies the neighbors brought over, she always felt like she'd been kidnapped. The silver lining was that her new parents—Diane and Leonard, she remembered—let her visit the Home often.

After that, it was home after home, bouncing around the state of New York. Beatrice and Matthew lived too far from the Home to visit but encouraged her to write letters often. Samantha and Vincent promised to send the letters and never did. Fiona and Walter returned her three days later like a library book because she "wasn't the right fit."

It was a cold, unfeeling, hassle of a life only mitigated by the presence of Ben, Richard, and May, who never let her go no matter how far she went and only waited for her to move back closer to home. Her fourth home, Edith and Gerald, actually took her to therapy when they realized that little Mary wasn't just sad sometimes, no, she was always upset and always would be until someone listened. That had helped her a lot.

She didn't think the foster system was all that terrible, though. Flawed? _Yes. Hell yes. _Evil? No, not really. There were bad people in it just like there were bad people in the rest of the world, and hey, she'd known plenty of people who found loving families who took them in as their own.

They got lucky.

She didn't know if she wanted to risk her kid not getting lucky.

"Fitz?"

Richard's worried poke at her wrist tugged her back down to earth, alongside a jerk of her hand that splatters tea down her wrist. It's still scalding hot, and both she and Richard scramble for napkins.

"Here, here, here—"

"I've got it, I—"

"Okay, just…be careful."

"A tea burn isn't going to hurt the baby, Rich," Mary half-chuckled. Then she realized she'd said the word 'baby' aloud for the first time and stopped. "Anyway…I wanted you to know, since it's going to be going on for a while now."

"Of course. I, uh…Thank you for telling me."

"As if I'd be able to hide it," huffed Mary.

"Um…" Richard's throat bobbed once more, plain as day, and he smiled. A wide, sweet smile as fake as plastic. "Congrats, I guess."

Oh, how Mary wished she knew what was happening in his brain. She wondered if he was actually angry about this. Did she…_want_ him to be angry about this? If he felt even an ounce of illness about this situation, she couldn't know if she'd be upset or now. This was her decision, not his. Maybe it was the worry of a friend, maybe he was…jealous. Jealous of the guy at the party—Tony Stark.

Well, he couldn't be jealous. He'd had years. More than ten years to get his feelings in order and it took her getting knocked up for an epiphany to come around? Oh, come on. That was bullshit. Why would she, in any way, take his feelings into account before hopping into bed with someone else? That was nonsense.

But jealousy meant something.

It would mean that he felt something, _anything, _for her, and she might have very well been desperate for _anything_. Sure, it would mean he'd never done anything about it. Now that he lived all the way across the continent, this meeting on a simple visit on a weekend off, it still wouldn't work. Mary didn't want to leave Queens and didn't want to live in Los Angeles. She didn't want to hear his voice on phones and computer screens.

Who was she even kidding?

_She'd _had years.

"Thanks," Mary said, as much as it hurt. She lifted up her tea. "Mazel tov!"

* * *

Being pregnant sucked and Mary didn't care if that went against the dreams of every girl fantasizing about glowing skin and people rubbing their swollen bellies. It sucked.

Some parts weren't so bad, especially with the Parker-Reilly trio behind her. May helped her out with the new wardrobe, mostly. Balancing out her diet also wasn't that horrible, and any cravings were solved by the 7/11 a few blocks down from her apartment. Morning sickness only hits her twice, thank goodness. It's messy but it's quick. And yeah, her skin and hair do pick up some shine. She also didn't become a puddle of hormones, thank goodness.

But. _Ugh. _Literally everything else.

She had to go to the bathroom every two seconds. Her feet ached and she couldn't find the right way to sleep in her bed at night. She got to keep her job at Melodia's and the Pepper Mill, but hoo, boy, if waitressing wasn't easier without a big pillow strapped to your front. The questions—"How far along are you?" or "Do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl?"—don't really bother her so much as the fact that they came from strangers. They were nice, though, and she answered kindly. Until a woman just reached out and rubbed her belly without permission. She shut that down fast.

Mary spent more time at Ben and May's apartment than her own. They made a point to be supportive without walking on eggshells around her. For the most part. May still kind of fretted over her sleep schedule and diet. More than once Ben had to pull her away so Mary could eat her bread-and-butter pickles in peace, thank you very much.

Richard kept in touch just as much as he usually did, but he seemed to actively avoid bringing up the pregnancy at all. Even when Mary did it herself, she immediately took note in the shortness in his responses. The periods at the ends of his messages. Any time that jealous-or-not question popped up, she shoved it back down at once.

Richard visited when he could, which wasn't terribly often. The Los Angeles Medical Center kept him as busy as a medical center could, and Mary was understanding. Being a physical therapist was a time-consuming job, LA was a time-consuming city. Still, she couldn't lie and say it didn't bother her that she saw him infrequently enough for her belly to swell in-between visits.

Mary saw the way he refused to look at her belly and didn't say anything about it.

She couldn't worry about Richard anymore. The ship had sailed and she was done waving her handkerchief. She had other things to worry about.

For example, her child's father was Tony Stark.

Well, okay, that wasn't too bad of a problem. She just had to keep her lips sealed tight about it. She was _not _going to spend the rest of her life known as The Woman Who Had Tony Stark's Kid. So it would just be a secret, forever and ever, unless the kid one day decided he wanted answers. The name "Tony Stark" alone was starting to lose its weight the more she thought about it. Sure, she sometimes felt a pang she couldn't name when she saw his face on TV, on tabloids. Mary had dealt with worse, she could deal with this.

The bigger issue was that Mary was…starting to reconsider the adoption angle.

* * *

After she decided she didn't want to put her child into foster care, she figured it was time to find a couple that would adopt them. There were _plenty, _of course. Hell, she saw advertisements in the newspaper for them. After _that, _though, Mary started to entertain the idea of keeping the baby. Entertaining soon became considering.

Alright. Call her a softie. Mary liked the idea of having a kid. Not the dirty diapers or temper tantrums, but the good parts. Everything had good parts and bad parts, and children were no different. Mary liked the idea of hearing the word "Mommy", bubble baths, the first day of Kindergarten, Christmas mornings, birthday parties…She was getting a little too much into the idea. In a good way.

Sometimes she saw babies at the diner, or on the street. She didn't care if it made her a weak-hearted daydreamer—she felt a little part of herself warm up when they giggled at their parents, or kissed their cheeks. The pure adoration in their children's and parents' eyes alike was enough to make just the slightest part of her melt.

"I think I want to keep the baby."

Why did she have to tell May first? May, of all people. Of course May lit up like a firecracker. _To Kill a Mockingbird _just barely managed not to go flying out of her fingertips.

"Really?! Really, really?"

Mary lifted up her foot and pressed it to May's belly, warding her away before her jubilee got too hot to handle. "Yeeup. I think so."

"I—Well, _SHIT, _Mary! You could have made up your mind sooner!" May jabbed a hand at Mary's belly, five months along and covered in a blanket. "We—You've got to get a cradle! You need a nursery! _A college fund!_ _There's going to be a whole new person on this planet in FOUR MONTHS."_

"M'kay, coffee time." Ben materialized out of heavenly nowhere and gently led his girlfriend away. She was still vibrating. "Good on you, Mary. We'll help you figure everything out."

May chugged down her coffee in record time and returned much more composed. Sitting back down across from Mary, she told her, "Alright. You come up with any names yet?"

Mary folded her book shut and hummed. "Maybe? Luke is a cute name."

"Yeah, I like that!"

"Leia is also cute."

"Oh, go figure." May shook her head and leaned back. Ben took a seat down beside her. "It's not my decision, but I will _physically stop your hand _from making their middle name Skywalker."

"What about 'Solo'?"

"_Mary."_

"Chill! If it's a girl, I was thinking Kirsten, Elizabeth, Rose, Lucy, Laura, Tara, or Emma. For a boy, I was thinking, Steven, Jack, Lee, Joey, Simon, Benjamin—"

Ben all but threw his coffee mug up into the air and cackled. His joy didn't stop even as May drove her elbow into his stomach. One of them was the upmost satisfaction, the other was betrayed hurt.

Mary held up her hands before she got a bag of Lays thrown at her head. "I just like the way it sounds!"

"So do I," agreed Ben, and he got another elbow-drive for his trouble.

"I won't forget this," warned May. She jabbed a finger right at Mary's nose. "For the rest of your natural life, Mary Fitzpatrick, I will not forget if you do this."

"If it makes you feel any better, I was thinking of naming my future cat May!"

That _did _get her the bag of Lays. Thrown.

May began to go into detail about everything they needed to do. Getting a room set up and baby-proofed was number-one priority, and Ben offered to sit down with her and catalog everything they'd need. They could even get a baby shower thrown together real quick, and invite all her friends from work. Once, just once, and only after they were alone did Ben only-curiously ask what she would put as the father's name on the birth certificate. Mary told him that she wouldn't write anything if she didn't have to.

So yeah. This was happening.

* * *

Richard showed up the weekend after Ben told him she was keeping the baby. It was like seeing a switch flip off, and Mary couldn't explain it.

They decided to buy a disassembled baby crib just to get it to fit in the car. May and Mary went on a toy-and-clothes shopping spree while Ben and Richard looked around at bigger items like cradles and changing stations. Mary's room would have to couple as the nursery until she could save up enough time and money for another move.

They spent hours getting everything together. Richard took it upon himself to build the crib, and it was such a tedious process that they all applauded once it was done. Then he flipped it over, and realized he'd somehow managed to build a perfect _cage. _They didn't let up on it for hours. _He_ didn't fade from tomato-red humiliation for hours.

Mary finally caved into curiosity and confirmed that yes, it was going to be a boy. Yes, she was pretty sure she liked the name Benjamin enough to name him that. They all threw themselves a little party at a bar not too far away, all of them sipping cocktails—_virgin, virgin, virgin _Mary made clear to every appalled look she got—and having good, genuine fun. May couldn't decide if she was happy at the news or infuriated that her boyfriend's name won. Mary asking her to be "Aunt May" kept her pretty satisfied after that, and if Ben got a little teary-eyed after hearing "What about you? Uncle Ben?" Well…They didn't rib him too much on it.

Richard accidentally tripped a guy with his leg, and an endless stream of apologies followed that no amount of "resetting him" could fix. The guy barked at him to get his peg-leg out of his way. He then left when the very pregnant woman stood to her feet with the look of death on her face.

After that, it seemed like every other weekend, Richard was making his way to Queens to help. Even if it was just little things, like driving her to an appointment or even just fixing a lightbulb. Mary wasn't complaining, but she wasn't _not _complaining. She was both grateful and perplexed and she decided to just not talk about it. She missed Richard dearly and took whatever time with him she had.

"So," Richard said as they walked down the block one day. Mary was seven months along now, waddling more than walking, but she tried to be out and about for at least an hour a day. It helped more than hurt her sore feet. Richard was the perfect partner, because he also had trouble—Okay, no. Bad Mary. Selfish thought. "Benjamin, huh?"

Mary let out a low, rumbling growl of a sigh. Richard laughed. "Did he brag about it, or did Mary rage to you?"

"Both at the same time. Not a nice sound, gotta tell you."

"Maybe I should name him Reilly, too. Just to make it even."

Richard's head snaked back in fake hurt. "Well, then his name better be Richard Reilly Benjamin Parker, because I-I am _not _getting left out of this. I will protest!"

Mary threw her hands up. "Okay, when one of you guys has a daughter, her name better be Mary Mary Parker-Mary. In recompense for all this pressure!"

"I was already going to name my kid after you!" He waited a good ten seconds to explain, "I'm going to name my son Fitz."

"You're insufferable."

"You love me."

"Not anymore." Mary kicked a rock down the pavement. It kind of helped get rid of the lump in her throat. Kind of. "I was thinking 'Peter'."

Richard considered it well. Let it bounce around his head for a bit. "Peter's a good name. Richard is better, but Peter's a good name."

"Peter Not-Richard Fitzpatrick."

"I'll take it."

Mary snorted, and they were quiet for a stretch after that. The sunset was bouncing orange off all the windows around them. Not a bad day in Queens, not at all. A perfect seventy-two degrees, just the right temperature to be out and about. For a second, Mary thought about holding her son's hand down the pavement. It was a nice thought.

"Hey, can I ask a completely off-topic question?" she asked.

"Sure."

"Waffles or pancakes?"

"Pancakes, Mary. For the last time!"

"You're factually wrong and I will write a thesis one day." With that ice-breaker out of the way, Mary went on. "Can I ask another completely off-topic question?"

"Chocolate beats vanilla. I will fight you on this, pregnant o-or otherwise."

"Why did you go to LA?"

Richard's face did that thing it always did when he was caught off-guard. His lips pursed, his eyes blinked, his brows knit together—they still walked side-by-side, but he gave her a confused glance as they went on. "Because they asked?"

"Yeah, but didn't Queens Medical Center _also _ask? I'm just saying, if you got, like, five people killed at work, all you would have to do is walk over and we could go get drinks."

"You're very considerate." The two of them sidestepped a passing couple. Richard put a hand on her shoulder as they did so, something he'd been doing much more as of late. It was hard to blame him. Even she thought she was going to tip over like a bowling pin sometimes. "I just wanted to live in LA, Fitz. I don't know what else to say."

"Say what's in LA that isn't here. Was it the casinos? Did you want to pass by the Hollywood sign every day? Did you go for Disneyland? There is no shame in admitting that you went for Disneyland."

It would have been so easy to let her voice get sharp, but Mary was careful. Not careful enough for Richard's smile not to gain some fakeness, but careful. "I think it was Disneyland and just…It not being Queens. We talked about it through college, didn't we? That one day we'd just toss a coin and live somewhere that wasn't New York."

"Yeah, but I was thinking, like…Omaha."

"Omaha?"

"Omaha!"

"I—You're right. You're so very—just completely correct. LA over Omaha. What the hell was I thinking?"

It was just a joke, of course it was, except it kind of wasn't. The Omaha part was a joke, but Mary didn't say—just as she hadn't _said _for months and months now—that she'd thought they had meant _together. _She thought that was a given. When they talked about getting a condo by the ocean, or a cabin in the mountains, or even just becoming one of those hippie road-wanderers with no direction, there was an understanding of _together. _Who just sat down with their friends to talk about them being separated in the future? "Hey, Fitz, in a few years from now, we're going to live thousands of miles apart and probably only see each other when we're lucky, and we'll slowly fade from each other's lives and only live on as fond memories. Let's talk about this and laugh!"

"What is it?" Richard just gingerly nudged his elbow against hers. "You, uh…You got that trying-not-to-be-pissed face on."

"I'm not pissed."

"I know, but—"

"I'm not trying to not be pissed, either."

"Okay, you say that, but your—I mean, your tone just…"

"Okay, Rich, how many times are you going to press the pregnant lady's buttons and still act coy, huh?"

"Alright, alright. I got it. I got you."

They were going to have to talk about this at some point, Mary knew. They'd been putting it off long enough.

When was the first time she realized they were going to have to talk about something? It certainly wasn't when they first met, Richard hadn't impressed her. Not to be mean, but he was two years younger, a short thing who couldn't keep eye contact and stuttered like a scratched CD.

Maybe it was after that, when Mary (and to be fair, just about every girl in their high school) thought, "Hey, Richard may have just gotten hit with the good end of the puberty stick." Or even after that, after he asked her to prom, and she said no only because she wasn't interested in standing around or awkwardly dancing, and then he asked Patricia Lennon instead and that made her very annoyed for some reason.

Heck, it might have even been after _that, _when she was running like a maniac to his hospital room. Not when she saw his cloth-swaddled stump for the first time, _hell no, _but maybe when she saw him eating Jell-O despite the remains of his leg being lifted up in the air in a sling and she thought _He's stronger than I thought he was. And also, more drugged. _

Time, time, time. She was always asking for more time when she had all in the world that she needed. Richard left for LA, Mary slept with Tony Stark, now she was pregnant, and this was going to be how their lives went. Even if they hadn't really run out of time, it sure did feel like that. Maybe _this_ was fate. Bullshit, that was.

Mary didn't get to wallow in her self-pity very long. The slight cramp she'd felt in her stomach all morning suddenly swelled up. She had to stop, and Richard stopped right along with her.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yep. I'm good."

She was. For seven minutes, then the pain swelled again.

"Do you want to stop?" Richard asked her. He'd already pulled her bag from her hand and slung it across his own shoulder. "Let's find a place to sit down, okay?"

"No, I'm fine. We just need to turn around. I think I might be having contractions."

"Alright."

Richard gently turned her around, and they continued back in the direction of her apartment. He kept her bag the whole way there, without once struggling with his leg. It took about halfway back for another swell of pain to come, and she just huffed and walked through it.

While she brushed a strand of hair from her face, Mary paused. Stopped. Frowned.

"Did I say that I was having contractions?"

Richard blinked. "Wait, did you?"

"Yeah, did I?"

Both of them looked down at her belly.

Mary pushed Richard forward with just a sigh. "Let's swing by and get my overnight bag."

"Cool," Richard wheezed. "Cool, cool, cool."

* * *

The short version of the story was that Peter Benjamin ("May I'm still round over here can you please not slap me.") Parker was born on August 10, 2001, about two months early at the Queens Hospital Center.

The long version of the story was that Richard rocketed her to the Queens Hospital Center and they arrived when her contractions were six minutes apart and not terribly strong. They explained everything to the workers inside, and there was some paperwork and waiting before Mary was allowed to change into a gown. They went ahead and set up a room for her. Ben and May arrived together. Mary realized that it was actually going to take a while for the baby to actually arrive, so they passed time playing a game of Uno. Ben fell asleep in the corner of the room. Then it was time for the baby to come, and everyone was shooed out save Mary (Duh with a capital D). There was an epidural, a lot of pushing, sweating, grunting, and then she had a son. Being early, there were many procedures to go through, and she waited a bit too long to actually hold him.

Finally he was passed over to her, a tiny pink little thing with a few wisps of brown hair and hands just barely bigger than her own fingertips. Those hands claw and swipe around before finding purchase on her thumb, and she kept them there. Mary didn't weep with joy, but she felt some tears welling up in her eyes. Happy, relieved tears. This-is-my-son tears.

May and Ben very nearly maul each other to hold him first. May won, so they settled on a one-to-one score. And oh, did May coo and fuss and giggle at every little sound Peter made. After that, the nurses insisted on setting Peter up the incubator, weakness to germs and all that. Ben and Richard huddle around the glass and watch him.

Mary fell asleep and woke up, saw her son, fell asleep again. Woke up, saw Richard sleeping in the corner chair, and smiled.

She was finally handed the birth certificate. As she'd said she would, she left the name of Peter's father blank.


	6. Chapter 6

**Belbelanne: **Thank you!

**Guest: **Thank you very much!

**holyghostofsteve: **Awww thanks!

**Jill Cohen: **Hiii! So the reason his name is 'Peter Parker' was because I have the brain equivalent of muscle memory of being so unused to 'Peter Fitzpatrick' that I wrote that his last name was Parker even though Mary and Richard aren't/weren't together and I'm very sorry! It was a mistake. A dumb one. That I shall fix soon. And of COURSE there will be Pepperony! Thanks a bunch!

* * *

Peter took after his mother most obviously. They shared the roundness to their eyes, the smooth brown hair with a slight curl to it. Even as young as he was, Tony could see the beginnings of laugh lines in his cheeks, the telltale sign of a kid who smiled very often. Not Mary's dimples, but very close.

His likeness to Tony was the non-obvious sort, which somehow was more effective. Same nose. Same face shape. Same—did Peter have his ears? He probably had his ears. The only thing that looked him right in the face, the one big blinking neon sign of _YOUR KID, YOUR KID, CHECK IT OUT, _was the brown hue of Peter's eyes. Tony remembered well that Mary's eyes had been a dark forest green. Peter's eyes were his and his alone.

He. was. _tiny_. Tony didn't know if he literally was or if he was average for a five-year-old and he was just imagining it, but Peter seemed so very small to him. He held Ben's hand above his but it felt like Ben could have taken the kid's whole arm into his palm alone.

Peter was small, and young, and real. Very real.

The way he looked at Tony was not warm. There was no drop of instant love in his eyes. Just curiosity and an abundance of wariness. He was brave enough to keep his big, _big _eyes trained at Tony's face, but he kept his hand firmly in Ben's. He was uncomfortable. Maybe even more so than Tony was.

Which made sense, because…Stranger. Three strangers, in fact, but it just so happened that one of them was his father. 'You know, Peter, your father. The thing all your friends have but you don't. A person that loves you unconditionally and tucks you to bed and kisses you goodnight. You've just never met him before because he didn't know you existed!'

Tony didn't know if the others were watching him. He was fully focused on watching Peter, the real, living Peter. The kid started to rock on the heels of his tiny sneakers. A little hand reached up to scratch his nose.

Someone had to take the first step forward, Tony figured, and it wasn't going to be the five-year-old. With one glance up at Ben, who replied with an all-too-understanding nod, Tony knelt down to Peter's height. The boy's hand fell back to his side. If he pulled back from Tony, it was hard to tell.

Up close, the big brown eyes are almost too…cute to look at. Cute. Adorable. The kid was incredibly adorable. He couldn't deny that.

"Well, you got my looks, so congratulations," Tony joked. Peter didn't so much as giggle back. Ah, well. Tony extended his hand outwards, open and upward. "Hey, Peter. It's nice to meet you."

Peter obediently shook his hand. Tony definitely wasn't imagining it. The kid's hand was smaller than his own palm.

Peter finally spoke in a voice that was just as tiny as he was. "It's nice to meet you, too."

Then he looked up at Ben, a big question mark on his face, and he got a nod back. Before Tony could even think about what that was for, Peter had leaned forward and wrapped his short little arms around Tony's neck and squeezed.

It was not nice.

It was horrible.

It was awkward, stiff, and maybe even a little scared. It was clear as day that Peter didn't really want to do this, he just thought he had to. Tony felt every bit of reluctance in his first-ever hug with his own son, and all he could do was pat him on the back in return. Behind him, he heard a coffee cup clink onto a surface. Someone sniffed.

Peter pulled back after only a couple of seconds. He didn't take Ben's hand again, only twiddled his own together. He was looking Tony up and down, and Tony got the acute feeling that the kid was a lot smarter than his age let on. Five years old, but so clearly analyzing and estimating Tony's every action and move. He was a stranger, but he was his father, so it was up to him to decide whether to trust him or not—LIKE him or not.

"You've got strong arms." Tony almost, almost, almost reached out to squeeze Peter's arm just so, but restrained himself at the last second. "Bet all the other kids at school know not to mess with you, huh?"

Peter didn't answer, just shook his head. Kid language for "I don't get the joke but I know it's a joke so I'll go along with it." Ben chuckled and rustled Peter's hair. At once, a little bit of tension eased out of Peter.

"More like he goes on the monkeybars for hours on end," Ben teased. "Peter's going to be super buff when he gets older, aren't you?"

This time, Peter nodded. Still didn't say anything.

Tony really wished he had some kind of coach with him right then. He had no idea if he was trying too hard, not enough, or not at all. He was expecting a lukewarm impression at best, but now he feared he was making Peter uncomfortable. Whether or not this would be their only time together, it would be their _first _time together, and Tony didn't want to ruin it.

So, Tony stood up and walked over to Happy's side of the couch. He and Obie were both observing in that very uncomfortable way of trying not to stare but doing it anyway. Regardless, Happy handed him the wrapped package without question. The purple paper sparkled even under the fluorescent light in the ceiling—the teeniest-tiniest spark of intrigue lit up in Peter's face.

"I was going to keep this for myself, but I think it's a little too good for me." Tony eased the box down at Peter's feet. "Have at it."

Peter blinked at him. Peter blinked at Ben. Peter blinked at May, and May cheered, "Go ahead, Peter!" So Peter finally tore off the bow and ripped the paper to pieces.

The second it was uncovered, a miniature version of R2D2 in cardboard casing, another punch of anxiety took Tony right in the stomach. He'd forgotten what it even was. He'd forgotten that he'd forgotten. So there was a very real possibility that Peter was not in any way, shape, or form a fan of a movie series that had started twenty-five years ago. But he'd gotten him a gift for it.

Tony steeled himself for the disappointment in Peter's face. In his head, he already docked himself another fifty 'First Impression' points. Doubled with an awkward introduction and never seeing the boy a day before in his life, he was probably at an even -1,000 now.

But then—but then!—Peter's face lit up. He was trying to be composed, that was easy to see, but he just couldn't stop a smile from curling his lips. He picked up the box and spun it around angle-by-angle. He was so enamored he wasn't even looking at Tony anymore.

Tony allowed himself a smile, too. It was easy enough, considering the pure joy radiating off the kid. "I had my fingers crossed you liked _Star Wars_."

May let out a long, amazed gasp and crossed the room to them. Though her arms were crossed, she was all smiles as she came up beside Peter. She'd built up no immunity to his grin. "Peter _loves _Star Wars!"

Peter nodded so much the curl in his hair bounced around. He was still twisting the box around to see every tiny detail. If Tony didn't know any better, he'd say he was trying to read the Spanish translation at the bottom.

Ben nudged Peter just slightly with his knuckles. "You should thank him."

Peter tore his gaze away to meet Tony's again. There was still wariness, but the eagerness to get this toy out of the box as soon as possible easily overwhelmed it. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

Alright. First Impression Score: -990.

"Can I go play with it?"

-995, then.

May's and Ben's faces both fell. One glance at each other and one glance at Tony, they prepared themselves for a gentle 'no, Peter, that's rude.' But Tony just waved his hand, still grinning. "Go for it, space ranger. Tear her to pieces."

Peter left the room a good two minutes after he'd entered it. His eager footsteps faded away to the back. May followed a moment later. Probably, she was helping him with all the plastic and cardboard.

Two brothers, two business partners, and a bodyguard-slash-chauffeur were left behind with their coffee cups and awkward postures. Ben's fingers scratching at his stubble, _scritch-scritch-scritch, _were as loud as stereo speakers. Tony, meanwhile, stood back to his feet and finally took off the ballcap he was still donning.

"I think that went well," he joked futilely.

Happy always took his job very seriously, to the point where _not _doing something to help or protect Tony sometimes made him antsy. So, having sat still on the couch for a good fifteen minutes now, he offered a very sincere, "I think it did." Obie just raised his eyebrows once and said nothing.

Richard crossed over, again with two mugs in one hand. Ben struggled to take it from him as he spoke, "He's just really—shy, I promise. He doesn't really—Ben, the green one's mine—understand what's going on, so he just, uh, nods along and does what he—because I put extra sugar in it!—what he's told. He doesn't get why—I mean, this is just what _I _think, and I could be wrong, but I don't think he gets why you're here."

"You can imagine it's been kind of rough on him." Ben finally grabs the _World's #1 (MARY) _mug when Richard lifts his walking stick in warning. "He's a trooper, but he can only bend so far."

Hearing that, and seeing Mary's name written in Sharpie on the mug, _and _standing in the home she and her son lived in, another pang of sadness takes Tony right in the chest. He'd realized it before, but he realized again that Peter had lost his mother. Not just that, but his one parent. Peter's very first memories were probably based on his mother's face, and he'd never be seeing it again.

Tony remembered the grief, the all-consuming bitter rage, that had taken over him when his parents had died. Well, no, 'remembered' was past tense. He still felt it at times, albeit the pain had dulled to wasp stings over the years. It still hurt, but time had made it a little easier. Plus, Tony had been an adult when he'd lost them. So even if he'd doubled over when he heard the news and sobbed into his hands like a broken little child, he _wasn't _a child. He understood what was happening. Howard had died knowing his son was a disappointment, Maria had died knowing her husband and son would never make amends, and both had died instantly in a random crash on a random road.

It was just another one of fate's inexplicable dice-rolls. Howard had probably seen a deer, or turned too hard, or something or another. Tony understood what had happened and what he'd lost.

Peter, though…he probably still wondered if the light stayed on when he closed the fridge. He probably still thought hearts were heart-shaped. How could he even begin to understand what was happening to him now? Perhaps he knew what death was—Tony himself had been five years old and grieving his goldfish Alberto when his mother had given him the "death is when you fall asleep and don't wake up because you go to heaven, it happens because it happens" talk—but still…He could understand what death meant while not understanding why Mommy wasn't going to come back.

The cherry on this cake with _Your life is falling apart! _written in icing was that the man who Peter sometimes saw on the TV was a real person and also his father. Tony was seriously starting to reconsider whether he should have come at all.

His thoughts were spiraling faster than a tornado, and Tony knew it. He started to wander around the sparse living room as if there was anything he hadn't seen yet.

"How far along are we in the 'planning' stage? I'm guessing everything was left to him."

Ben nodded. "Mary left behind a will in case anything like this happened—besides the letter, I mean."

Tony tipped back the last of his coffee, grains and all. Hopefully the caffeine would punch him in the face any minute now. "I don't suppose she said what she wanted for him? _Who, _I mean."

Ben scratched at his cheek again, _scritch-scritch. _Richard's gulp from his coffee was accompanied with his eyes suddenly finding interest in the carpet beneath them. Well, at least they'd staved off the awkward silence of dread for this long.

"Mary sai—wrote that she was okay with me and May taking him in." Ben's pinky tapped against the mug. "If we want to. We're still talking about it."

Tony figured as much. The way she'd talked about them alone let Tony know Mary would trust May and Ben with her life and Peter's. That didn't mean asking them to take over in the event that she no longer could would be easy. Mary wasn't wrong for asking, they wouldn't be wrong for saying no.

Obie finally stood up to his feet and tugged at his cufflinks. Tony didn't even know what to expect of him anymore. He'd been quiet this whole time, and he hadn't been looking at him. He was relaxed (finally) and tucked his hands into his pockets. For some reason, he seemed very large in the New York apartment. Happy, now alone to sip coffee on the couch, seemed small by comparison.

"How old is he?" Obie asked.

Richard and Ben both blinked once. They didn't say it, but Tony doubted they even knew who Obie was. It wasn't that Obadiah Stane wasn't an important person—former business partner of Howard Stark, CEO of Stark Industries before Tony inherited the title—but nowadays people usually only recognized him from the news. Tony didn't think that was fair, but Obie had never really loved interviews and flashing cameras. He took part in them, just didn't love them.

Richard answered first, with a blink of 'oh hey yeah I know this guy.' "He's five. Five and a quarter, technically, uh—his birthday is August 10th."

"M'kay. So he's got about thirteen years before he has full access to whatever Miss Mary left behind for him." Obie pulled his hands out to fold his arms, but his stance was not unkind. His gaze had even softened up a touch. "He's going to need a custodian until then. Have you decided on that part yet?"

"She did ask us to do that." Ben motioned his coffee cup near the square kitchen. The table pressed against the wall, accompanied by two mismatched chairs, was covered in a layer of papers, pens, and manila folders. "We're working on that right now. Just about fried our brains out last night."

Obie let out a _"pah!" _and clapped his hands together. "Let me help you out with that. You've gotta be careful about these things. Come on."

Ben followed him with a nod of thanks. Obie sat himself down, hunched over the papers, and picked up a pen at once. Tony couldn't hear what he was explaining to Ben, but gratitude covered him like a safety blanket. Maybe seeing the kid was, well, a _kid _and not a breathing threat to Tony's public image had turned Obie's mind in the right direction.

Happy's impatience peaked again with "He seems like a sweet kid." Then his lips sealed together as if Gorilla-Glued.

"Oh, yeah!" Richard swung his walking stick forward with expert grace. Finally starting to relax, and good on him for it. "I swear, he's just—you know, he's just shy. But he's sweet. And smart. _God, _he is so smart. I—I kid you not, he's beaten me at checkers more than I'd like to admit."

Tony mouthed to Happy, _He's got my brain. _Happy nodded.

Richard was still moving around to the kitchen island, not too far from Obie and Ben, but ignoring them in favor of searching for something. "I'm not sure if it, uh, matters or anything, but just in case you wanted to know—like I said, maybe not important—he has mild allergies to almonds and hazelnuts. And, uh, he uses reading glasses. Just for reading, not, like, all the time…He's pretty much caught up on everything medical-wise. Vaccinations and all that, I mean."

Tony nodded and nodded and nodded some more while he wondered if this was important after all. He wasn't complaining about learning these facts. No harm to it. Maybe if he needed to pay for EpiPens or broken glasses or—

Tony was really overthinking this, wasn't he?

There was a small bookshelf towards the back corner, beneath the window. It was mostly books and movies—a hardback copy of _Where the Wild Things Are _was propped against the case for _Pulp Fiction_—and a succulent in a little pot. Beside that there was a leather photo album. _M & P _is scrawled across the front in gold leaf.

Tony lifted up the front of the book before he could help it.

He didn't look past the front page, but it was enough, more than enough. There were three photographs on the page, all together with no mind about chronological order. The first was Mary, with color in her cheeks and very much alive. She was laying down in a hospital bed, but despite that and the strands of sweaty hair sticking to her forehead, she was smiling. The camera was held to show the glass box in front of her—inside that box is Peter, and _holy shit _if Tony thought he was tiny before. Newborn Peter is so little it hurt like a stab to his heart. Wires were wrapped around his pink nose and his pink chest, held in place by cloth stickers.

Despite her son being the personification of fragility itself, Mary is smiling. Not just smiling, but a crooked smile with an upturned face and a finger pointed at Peter as if declaring, _"Hell yeah, I made this."_

The next picture is both of them in a park, Central for all Tony knew. Peter was old enough to stand on two red sneakers. His hair had become a mop of unruly brown curls. Neither of them were looking at the camera, they might not have even known about it. Mary was kneeling behind Peter so he could be between her knees and lean against her shoulder. She was holding a paper bag in one hand and was extending a palm of crumbs toward four pigeons, one caught as a blur mid-flight. Her mouth was open to instruct Peter, and he was listening, but he had so many crumbs in his balled-up hand that they were spilling between his fingers.

The final picture was another candid shot, and very dark save for the grainy, bluish glow of a television out of view. It illuminated Mary and Peter on the same couch that Happy sat on at that moment. They weren't happy. They were peaceful. Mary was in pajamas, her hair was messy. Munching on popcorn. One arm lazily draped around Peter's body. Peter was hardly any younger than what Tony had seen of him a few minutes ago. His head was propped against his mother's thigh. Both of them were watching the TV with their full attention, no other care in the world.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony heard his name but didn't turn away immediately. The last photo could have been taken last week, for all he knew. It was taken on a couch he stood not four feet away from. He couldn't say exactly why that upset him so much.

Richard was coming toward him with two letters, one opened and one not. He extended them out to Tony.

"Just in case you wanted to read it," he said.

Tony took them, and looked over to Obie. He was still absorbed in helping out Ben with the paperwork. Happy kept sipping coffee. In the back, he heard something thump against a carpeted floor.

Tony sat down on the armchair next to the couch and lifted the opened letter first. The writing was clear but quick.

_Parker, Reilly, Richard, & Whoever Else They Deem Important Enough to Read This_

_This letter will be taken out of my safe deposit box in the event that I die. I know a written letter is pretty predictable, but I have a reason for this, trust me. I don't like writing this, either. I don't like acknowledging that I could die younger than I think I will, but it's better to face it and be uncomfortable than not and leave a mess behind me. _

_Most of this is in a will I've already left with my attorney, but some things need to be said here, and from me. Everything property and money-wise has already been settled, but if something ever happens to me, __Peter is the number one priority__, but you already know that._

_I've been thinking a lot lately, and that's why I'm writing this. I don't know why, but I've been worrying and __guilting__ feeling very guilty lately. You may never even read this later, because maybe I'll actually face up to things by then and I'll pull this out of the box. But maybe I won't, so I'll get to it._

_If something happens to me—again, already in the will—I'm trusting you three to take care of Peter. Not necessarily "take care" of him, though. There are no two people I'd trust more to take care of him than Reilly and Parker, and no one person than Rich, but I'm not going to ask that of you guys because I know that's probably the hugest thing to ask anyone to do. So if you guys want, go for it. You'll know everything he's going to need. If not, find someone else who does. I trust that with you, too. I also don't like imagining someone besides me caring for him, but I don't think any parent who loves their kid does. The best I can do is make sure he has the best._

_Whatever you decide, please, please, __please__ don't abandon him. It doesn't matter if Peter is 5 or 7 or 16 when you're reading this, I know for a fact you'll still be one of his constants, the way I __am__ was. Everyone needs constants. If you decide that someone else should care for him, please just visit him and talk to him and make sure he knows you're there. It was only through you guys that my time going from home to home wasn't the loneliest nightmare in the world. I'm going to ask that you do the same for him._

_There's something else that I need to let you guys know that isn't in that will. If I'd already told you this myself, you wouldn't be reading this at all._

_I'm just going to write it: Peter's father is Tony Stark._

_We met at that charity ball I was s__upposed to be__ waitressing at and seven months later I had Peter. I'm absolutely positive about this. Please just accept that yeah, I slept with Tony Stark and he's Peter's dad. I'm not going into paragraphs begging you to believe me._

_(You are, however, very much allowed to be impressed.)_

Tony snorted despite himself. Happy glanced over at him, but said nothing.

_Again, you wouldn't be reading this if I'd already figured this out myself. But you __are__ reading this, and that means I haven't told you and/or I haven't told him._

_I didn't tell __you__ guys because I think I'm pretending that it didn't matter. I get that having Tony Stark's kid sounds like a big friggin' deal, but I didn't think so. But I still hid it from you guys, so sorry for contradicting myself. If you'd even believed me, I wouldn't want you guys thinking about that every single time you look at me or Peter. Calling him "that guy at the party" is embarrassing enough. I'm really not trying to be mean here, but you guys are human and humans are judgmental by nature._

_The reason I didn't tell Stark is between him and me. Maybe he'll tell you, but there's going to be another letter in this box. It'll say "For T.S.—DON'T OPEN UNLESS THAT'S YOU!" I'm trusting you guys to follow that instruction. If you're disappointed that I'm not telling you, I'm sorry. Maybe he'll tell you. Maybe not._

_I'm asking you guys to please get in contact with Stark and let him know. Why I didn't tell him sooner will still be between him and me, but if I don't get around to it at all, I'm afraid that's what I'm begging you guys to do. Do whatever it takes to get through to him. Call him, fly to LA, whatever. Don't ask him to pay off Peter's college savings, don't ask him to pay some kind of post-martum child support, just let him know he's Peter's father and leave it at that. Everything after that is in his hands._

_I have no idea how to end this letter, I'll be honest. Please just follow what I've written. I love you guys so, so, so much and I know you'll do what's right for Peter. Look after him and make sure he doesn't forget his Mom loves him._

—_Mary Fitzpatrick, in case that wasn't clear_

There was an odd dryness to Tony's throat when he finished the letter, but it definitely wasn't the warning sign of tears. He folded the letter at last and glanced up just in time to see Happy flick his gaze away from him. Tony felt like an intruder reading that letter, but Richard wanted him to, he supposed.

That left the other letter, and sure enough, there the print was: _For T.S.—DON'T OPEN UNLESS THAT'S YOU! _Well, that was him. So Tony slid his thumb under the seal and pulled the paper out.

_Stark,_

He read that three times like he didn't even recognize his own name.

_The only reason you'll be reading this is if I haven't grown the balls to face you myself. So now that you are, and I haven't, I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry, but I need to get to that in a second._

_Either Richard, Reilly, or Parker (or someone else they trust) has gotten into contact with you and has let you know that you're Peter's father. You've probably gotten this letter after they've sent it to you. This will be the first time you'll have heard from me in a while. I know that what I'm doing/have done is super shitty and again, I'm very sorry._

_If you don't believe me, I don't blame you. I guess you don't HAVE to believe me, but I just have to beg you to. Take a paternity test if you feel you need to. I just want to make it clear, first of all, that I am __not not not not not __asking any favors of you. I know you're Peter's father, but he's also a stranger you're only just now hearing about and I'm not expecting you to support or even see him. *I* am a stranger to you and I really do not think I have any right or reason to demand anything from you._

_I'm letting you know that you're Peter's father because you should know that you're Peter's father. If you're wondering why the hell I didn't tell you sooner, I'm going to explain the best that I can and sound like the world's worst human being while doing it._

_First of all, I didn't think you'd believe me. I'm positive—I don't mean this as an insult, you can even take it as a compliment if you want—that you've been with a lot of women before. I'm also sure this isn't the first time you've heard that you have a kid. You might already have a kid via one night stand, for all I know. My point is that I didn't think you would believe a word I'd said. If you did, and you thought I was going to demand half your money and all of Stark Industries as child support, I wouldn't have blamed you for being wary._

_Second of all, and this is where I'm really going to sound shitty, I didn't think you'd care. I didn't know you for very long, but I liked you a lot. I don't wish to assume things, but I would say you're a lot better than the perfect playboy the media says you are. You were funny and nice and I knew there were things you cared about, but Peter might not have been one of them. It's not about biting off more than you can chew so much as eating more than you can keep down. A child is hard work on top of the mountain of hard work you already have._

_(This last point really, really, really needs to stay with you. Please don't tell Rich or anyone else, __please__.)_

_Third of all, I regret what happened to a degree. I love Peter to death and back. I'm not joking, he's the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn't trade him for the world. But I can't lie to myself and say that I was in a completely perfect state of mind when we were together. I'd missed my last pay on rent, I had to sell my car, and I had realized but not accepted that me and Rich weren't going to happen. I switched with Craig because I was desperate—it was stupid, and I got fired, and I'm sure I got Craig in trouble and made a lot of people uncomfortable, however funny you and I thought it was. I'd never had a one-night stand before. I've never gotten THAT drunk before._

_You absolutely, in no way, took advantage of me AT ALL.__ We were both drunk as sailors and I enjoyed every bit of our time together. It wasn't your fault and I don't want to say it was my fault because "fault" kind of implies that what we did was some kind of crime. It wasn't, but I still regretted it because that wasn't me._

_I've known for a long time now that I should have let you know as soon as I found out. It didn't matter if you didn't believe me. It didn't matter if you didn't want anything to do with me or Peter. It didn't matter if I couldn't grow a damn spine and face up to what happened. __You deserved to know that you were a father.__ I'm writing this down and I STILL haven't told you, and I am so, so, so, so, so sorry. One of my old foster mothers said that the worst kind of people know that what they're doing is bad and they do it anyway. Consider me the worst kind of person._

_Again, I do not want you to fund/support/care for Peter. If __YOU AND YOU ALONE__ want to do that, do it. I've taken away a lot of your decisions and giving this to you now isn't the least I can do, it's the least of the least of the least that I can do. But I am going to ask that you consider what he wants, too. So—this is going to sound horrible, but I can't control Peter's wants like a puppet—if Peter decides of his own will that he doesn't want to meet you, please respect that. _

_I just want you to know, whether in this letter or from myself. I'm so sorry and I can only hope that you can forgive me and realize what you want to do about this. I mean it when I say I think you're a good person. I'm not going to go into this whole "DON'T YOU DARE GET MAD AND TAKE IT OUT ON PETER" paragraph because I know I don't have to. _

_I really am sorry and I hope you're okay._

—_Mary Fitzpatrick_

_P.S. "Cold water for champagne, hot water for red wine" turned out to be bullshit, just FYI._

The next time his own name called him back to reality, which was happening with more frequency the past few days, it came from Happy. He was leaning across the couch and his eyebrows were knotted together in deep, sincere concern. Tony still held the letter even though his hands had gone limp in his lap. He could have been staring into dead space for minutes.

Tony raised his eyebrows at Happy. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

Tony folded the letter.

"I'm great."


	7. Chapter 7

**Konoewpl: **Thank you very much! The complexity of the situation is coming up soon. Conflict!

**holyghostofsteve: **Thank you!

**Belbelanne: **Should we ever _not _be concerned about Obadiah? Lol but thanks, seriously!

**Belle1235: **Here you go!

* * *

Peter didn't come out of his room for the rest of that evening, bar one time to get a drink. Obie and Ben spent most of the time figuring out the paperwork at the kitchen table, albeit their conversation occasionally went to the Mets, Queens in comparison to Malibu, and other harmless topics. May bounced between Peter's room and the living room. Happy only spoke when spoken to but otherwise seemed fine.

Tony sat on the armchair like a worthless couch potato.

To be fair, the others did try to strike up some conversation every now and then. For the most part, though, Tony just sat there in a thoughtless silence. Which was surprising, since he had a lot to think about.

Hours ticked by one-by-one, and with little else but pitch black coffee, everyone decided that supper was probably in order at around five. Richard was the first to suggest they go out and the first to realize that Tony existing with them would turn heads. So in the end May put in a big order for a nearby Chinese place.

Dinner was about as good as dinner could have been. Peter came obediently from the back, ate his fried rice and chicken dumplings, and didn't say much aside from "Can I have more?" and "Yeah" and "No." Any attempts to engage him in conversation were met with silent replies.

"What do you like to do at school, Peter?" Shrug.

"Is Chinese food your favorite, Peter?" Shrug.

"You're being awfully quiet, Peter." Trapped shrug.

In the meantime, the others kept up as much casual talk as they could. They even managed to crack a couple jokes and share a few laughs, but it was all blanketed in an awkwardness that couldn't be ignored. It all felt like a business meeting trying too hard to be something else.

Peter didn't look at Tony, but to be fair, he didn't look at anyone much. His eyes stayed trained down to the table until his name was spoken. After a quick "Can I go to my room now?" he dashed back down the tiny hallway like he couldn't get there any faster. Everyone tried to help out with the cleaning, but what else was there to do besides tossing empty boxes in the trash?

The conversations began to pick up the implication of closing, and Tony found himself glancing back down the hallway more and more. From where he stood, leaning in the corner with one last mug of coffee in hand, he could see a sliver of Peter's room. Not much, but he thought maybe he saw a nightlight and a couple of glow-in-the-dark stars. Peter was being as quiet as a mouse.

"Hey," he said, and everyone quieted down almost at once. "Is it okay if I…?"

He kind of waved his hand in the general direction, and quickly, Ben took the mug from him and gave him a nod of encouragement. With that, Tony picked up his ballcap from where he'd left it on the shelf and walked through the little hallway, through the door with P-E-T-E-R in uneven red letters, and into Peter's room.

The room was about what Tony would have expected, albeit a bit on the small side. The walls were covered in pictures of crayons, markers, and paints, all with the "Guess what this is" quality only children could accomplish. The window had a pretty poor view of the alley down below, but an attempt was made to remedy this with striped blue curtains.

The duvet was covered in a star-and-rocket pattern, same as the pillows. A box in the corner housed a collection of toys. Those, the night stand, and a short chest of drawers were all the furniture in the room. Not counting the deflated green bean bag, that is.

Peter was in the middle of the carpet, not playing with the R2D2 but keeping it close at his side. He had a pretty large plastic box full of Lego bits in front of him. Several pieces were out on the floor—he was smart enough to keep his shoes on—and on the instruction pamphlet between Peter's feet.

His big brown eyes were pinned on his work with a surgical precision. The size of his hands actually seemed to make it easier for him to snap the pieces together. So focused was he that it took Tony turning to look at the Yoda poster on the wall to get his attention.

Watching the five-year-old's walls shoot up was only a tiny bit funny, and still in the disappointing way. He went blank-faced and turned his eyes up on Tony without raising his chin. His hands lowered the Legos as if he was about to get in trouble for it.

"Hey," Tony greeted.

Peter whispered a "Hi."

Tony nudged the box with the toe of his shoe. "You like Legos, too?"

Peter nodded.

"As you should. I kept mine 'til I was sixteen." Given, he'd kind of hid them in a shoebox under his dresser, since Howard never did think too highly of them, but still. Who didn't like Legos? "Mind if I join you?"

Peter scooted back to let Tony sit with him. He did, cross-legged, not too close and not too far. Peter reached into the box and handed him a little booklet. It'd been folded so many times white cracks were showing. Tony spread it out and fished for the parts.

The kid deemed him harmless enough to go back to work. It was impressive, how well and quickly he worked. Not that looking at the pictures was hard, but credit was still due.

"What are you making?" asked Tony. The front cover of his own booklet was missing, so he guessed he was making a surprise.

"A jet," answered Peter. It was probably obvious from the wings.

Tony clicked a couple of pieces together. "So you like _Star Wars_ and you like Legos. What else?"

"I like reading."

"You're sophisticated. What's your favorite book?"

"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." He pronounced it like "chock'lit", which was... Unfairly cute. Peter's eyes glanced between Tony and the Legos before he finally decided to ask, "What does 'sophisticated' mean?"

"Fancy and smart." Looking for a two-dot piece in a mountain of other pieces wasn't going to be easy, but he'd try. It was hard to hear his own voice over all the tinkling of plastic on plastic. "Bet you do really good in school. All your friends must be jealous."

Peter didn't say anything to the last one, but he replied "Mrs. Batson says I'm really good."

"Mm. Usually the more you like school, the better you do. So you must really like school."

Peter shrugged. "I haven't been back for a couple days."

No duh, Tony. Great job.

He finally managed to find what he needed, and clicked it into place. "I need to ask you something, Peter, and I'm going to need you to be honest with me. Do you know who I am?"

Peter's eyes flicked across his face for a moment; probably in search of something, not that he could tell what. "Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, but other than that."

"Ben said your name was Anthony, but Tony's your nickname."

Tony had to try very, very hard not to chew on the inside of his cheek. Not that he was aggravated with Peter for not understanding, but at the same time, a childish part of him was kind of wishing this conversation would go by faster. "Do you know how we're related?"

Peter finally stopped with maybe a tiny sigh. Like he knew what Tony was trying to say but was playing it off in hopes of getting away sooner. Well, then, the kid really did have his father's brains. "You're my dad."

"Mm-hm." That was a little relief. "So now it's your turn. Do you have any questions?"

Peter shook his head.

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

Peter shrugged.

This time he did chew on his cheek. Five-year-olds were tough nuts to crack. He could tell just in the way Peter pinned his eyes back down with defiance that he in fact had _many _questions. If he had to guess, 'Where have you been?' was probably near the top.

The ice remained firmly unbroken, it was getting late, and Peter wasn't looking at him anymore. Tony finished his creation—dinosaur with a scratched-off eye, go figure—and Peter finished his. If Tony needed any more proof that he was no longer welcome, Peter twiddled the jet between his fingers in mock fascination.

"Well, I'll tell you what." Tony set the dinosaur a little closer to Peter. "I'm going to come back and see you later, and you can ask me any questions you come up with by then. 'Kay?"

Peter nodded, but the slightest of cracks between his lips had Tony pausing.

"I have a question," Peter asked.

"Shoot."

"Is it okay to call you Mr. Stark?"

The unspoken _Do I have to call you 'Dad'? _was as clear as day, but Tony ignored it because that wasn't what he asked. "If you want, but you can call me Tony, too."

"Okay. How old are you?"

Tony looked him up and down. "I am twenty-seven plus nine."

Peter only had to think about it for a moment. "Thirty-six?"

Oh, he definitely had Tony's brain. It wasn't a crime to be proud of that. "You got it."

"What's your favorite color?"

Yeah, it might have been a random question, but who cared? It was harmless. Tony did have to think about it, though. He'd be the first to admit that he was the sort of person whose favorite color changed often. "I'm going to say red."

"Okay. Red's my favorite, too."

"You have spectacular taste."

There were no more questions after that. Tony stood up to his feet and put on his ballcap again. Peter picked up the dinosaur in place of the jet.

"If I can pull a couple strings, maybe I'll get us some tickets to a Jets game. Let you know when I can. I'll see you later, Peter."

Peter finally looked up at him, for just a second, no more. "Bye, Mr. Tony."

* * *

Tony, Obie, and Happy checked in to a Comfort Inn not too far away from the apartment. Tony kept his ballcap and mask on and coughed to keep up the performance. They managed to go in without trouble, with special thanks to paying in cash and the names they signed themselves under—Happy was "John Smith", Obie was "Charles Anderson", and Tony was "Axl Rose". After that, all three departed for their separate rooms.

Tony had a much better sleep that night but still felt tired when he awoke the next morning. Jet lag, probably. Or guilt.

He remembered that the funeral would be the next day, and that he hadn't brought that up at all to the others. He'd already decided that attending was out of the question, but neither Richard, May, nor Ben had so much as mentioned it. Perhaps they agreed that he shouldn't be coming.

There wasn't much of a plan that day, but at around nine, Richard texted him to say that he and May were going to eat at an Italian joint for lunch, did Tony want to join them? Tony agreed, Obie made a vague comment about going sightseeing, and Happy put up a bit of a fight about letting Tony go alone before departing, too.

The place was a hole in the wall, square and sandwiched, a faded canopy reading _Georgino's _and a neon sign beneath it clarifying _ITALIAN. _May and Richard were at a booth toward the back, and cleverly seated. Tony's back would be facing the front, there were no restrooms to come in and out of close by, and at ten-thirty, not much traffic at all. There also didn't seem to be any security cameras, which was good for him, not so good for literally everyone else.

Tony ducked in and beelined it for the table before any of the staff could start a conversation. He'd been lucky enough to make the walk over with only a few "is that…?" glances and no confrontation. He wanted to keep it that way.

May was wearing a striped sweater, Richard a red scarf, and both looked more rested than the day before. They even offered him welcoming smiles as he approached.

"Hey, To—" May caught herself. "—bias."

'Tobias' gave her a grin behind his mask. "'Tony' isn't too uncommon a name, you know."

Richard took a look around just to be safe. "I think as long as we don't refer to him as 'Señior Rígido', we're good."

"You have my full permission to call me Tony." He picked up the laminated menu that probably hadn't been cleaned in a good while and flipped it open. Lasagna was the first option, except it said 'lasanga', so that was a good sign.

May blew a piece of auburn hair out of her eyes. "Next time you see Obie, thank and bless him for helping us out with the paperwork. I thought my brain was going to melt out of my ears the last time I looked at it."

"That I will. That mean you guys have decided on what to do?" Not wanting to immediately bring down the mood, he tried to save it with, "Unless he was just helping you out with your electric bills, in which case, I'm afraid you should be versed on that by now."

May picked up her menu again and shrugged. "Not entirely. We're prepared to be his custodians, but we're still deciding on the everything-else."

"Just for the record," said Richard, "we all want to. Take care of him, I mean. It's just—I mean, _I _live all the way out in Los Angeles, and May and Ben—they just—can't."

"No kids allowed in your apartment?"

May shook her head with just the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips. Tony hadn't even noticed until then that she was wearing glasses. "No, it's just that we aren't prepared financially. I work at a soup kitchen, Ben's trying to get into the police academy, and, well, it's _New York. _It's not a bargain to live here."

That explained Ben's build. Tony tried to keep reading his menu, but couldn't for long. "Just for the record, I'd be more than happy—"

May raised a finger and snapped, "Ah, ah, ah!" Then she pointed to Richard. "Rich, please inform Tobias of the Parker-Reilly proverb."

"Only spoil a movie if you want someone to hate you."

"The other one."

"The owner of the last slice of pizza must be agreed upon by committee."

"The _other _one."

Richard sighed. "Well, you made one up without telling the Parkers—"

"Don't accept charity from people, even if they mean well." May tucked the menu back behind the napkin dispenser and gave Richard a mean stink-eye. "It's really sweet to offer, but we have to decline."

"That's _never _been a 'proverb' of ours."

"It is now," May barked. "Anyway, we'd be using the money for him, anyway. So it's probably not even going to be that big of a problem."

"Fitz had a couple of friends, too. From work and—like—Peter's school. So we were thinking maybe we could ask them. Maybe."

Tony gave Richard a curious look. "'Fitz'?"

Boy if Richard didn't look like a deer in headlights. Immediately turning his eyes down to the grimy table top, he explained, "Just—what I used to call her."

Tony probably could have come up with another quip, but he left it at that. The somber light in Richard's eye had been there since Tony had first seen him and it hadn't let up even when he was smiling. Mary thought they were going somewhere, she'd said. Maybe Richard had thought the same thing.

Maybe he had thought the same thing and was now sitting at the table with the father of her kid. That would…definitely explain the awkwardness.

The waiter came, and they all settled down while Tony made sure his mask was up.

May ordered saffron risotto, Richard carbonara, and Tony got the 'lasanga' while pronouncing it as such. Judging by the waiter's look, they got that complaint often.

It wasn't until the waiter was gone that May cracked the smile she was holding back. "Mary used to do that every time we came here."

"Really?" asked Tony.

Richard said, "No, she got the uh—" He peeked inside his menu. "—spag-hottie."

"Oh, yeah," May laughed. Richard just smiled and shook his head like he couldn't believe those misspellings hadn't been fixed yet.

Given, he'd only known her for no more than a night, but Tony could hear Mary's voice saying it. _I'll have the spag-hottie with extra marioro sauce, per favore. _He suddenly remembered that in their alcohol-filled haze, he'd been naming a few of the faces at the event for her. At _Alphonse Eldermark, _her entire face had twisted in disgust for the man's parents.

"When we were at that party, she got herself a rum and Coke." Why was he saying this to her lifelong friends? Didn't matter. May and Richard were listening now. "It was 90% Coke. Just about tore the bartender a new one."

"Was it Bill?" Tony nodded, and May looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, she complained about Bill all the time. She was so mad he got paid more than her."

Richard lightened his voice in friendly mocking. "'He said he wanted a White Russian, Bill! I'd say you were trying to give him milk and cookies, _but you forgot the cookies!'_"

Tony laughed along with them. He wished that he'd gotten to talk to Mary a little more, a feeling nostalgic from the morning where she'd run out before he was even dressed. If only he'd said something, anything. Maybe then he'd have gotten to hear more of her eloquent insults of her coworkers.

"She was clever," he sighed.

Richard nodded. "She always wanted to make people laugh, not that she'd admit it."

"Peter gets it from her." May had a warm twinkle in her eye. "I know he seemed shy as a mouse, but I swear, half the time it seems like he can't stop smiling."

So Tony had definitely made him uncomfortable. Great—

_Oh, would you stop? _some angry part of his mind barked at him. _Obie was right, you've been wallowing in self-pity ever since you got here! You're more bummed out than her friends of twenty-plus years!_

Richard shifted in his seat, and suddenly sighed. Tony watched, but tried not to stare, as the lankier man reached beneath the table to re-adjust his leg. Tony would have forgotten all about that, if not for the walking stick now folded up at Richard's side.

"Can I ask how that happened? You don't have to tell me unless it's a really cool story."

Richard laughed a single 'Ha!' and straightened back up. He didn't seem bothered. "The coolest story. I was driving a motorcycle, took a turn that was just about ninety degrees, crushed my foot into a thousand tiny pieces. I think I was in shock, because the paramedics said I was sitting cross-legged waiting for them."

May rolled her eyes and flicked Richard across the nose. Ignoring his yelp of pain, she told Tony, "He was definitely in shock. Do you know what the first thing he said was when he called Ben? 'Hey, how are you doing?'"

Tony raised his hands palms-up and mirrored Richard's defensive look. "That's a perfectly normal greeting!"

"Yeah, but when your _foot _is missing?"

"Well, what would you have said?"

"'Ben, I just lost my foot, come to the hospital now!'"

Now it was Richard's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, when _you're _waiting on the side of the freeway with her foot in pieces, you do that." Richard shook his head. "Anyway, that's actually what got me started in physical therapy. It was—inspiring, I guess? Having someone teach me how to—function. I cannot speak, I'm sorry."

"No, no, hey—You said you were in LA?" Richard nodded like he didn't see the significance of that. Tony, meanwhile, all but flew his arms out with his eyes wide in disbelief. "Stark Industries is in LA! I live in _Malibu. _We've been, what, forty minutes away from each other this whole time?"

"I realized that before I called you." May didn't, though, and mimicked Tony's wonder at not realizing it sooner while Richard nonchalantly continued. "I thought maybe I could fly over and see you while I was getting some stuff from my apartment, but then I thought, just—'Yeah, like Tony St—like _Señor Rígido _doesn't get strangers on his doorstep every hour of the day."

Tony leaned forward to whisper, "The secret is to buy me flowers."

Richard smiled at that, a real smile that crinkled at his eyes, probably the happiest Tony had seen the man. May's surprise had turned to thought, and thought turned to brainstorming. A light bulb popped on over her head.

"Hey," she exclaimed, a little too loud not to draw attention. Then, quieter: "When Peter comes to visit, he can come see Tony, too, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony answered at once. "Absolutely. Just give me a heads-up and—we'll make it work, I'm sure."

The waiter came with their plates in hand as he said that. The lasanga tasted as good as it was spelled, not that any of them were expecting Michelin-star quality. May explained to Tony that she was a first-generation Italian. This was a prologue into her hushed rant about how authentic Italian cuisine was becoming harder and harder to come across. Richard chimed in with a reminder that May wasn't exactly Chef Boyardee, and that got them into an argument wherein Tony was all but ignored.

Which was probably for the best, because it was time for another round of _Is Tony Beating Himself Up for No Reason, or is He Just Thinking About Important Things?_

He would be returning home in probably two or three days. He'd had a grand total of two (2) conversations with the son he'd flown out to meet to begin with. Now, with seventy-two hours at most remaining, he still had no idea where he was going from here.

If Mary and Ben or Richard ultimately decided that they could house Peter, and care for him, then that would be fantastic. It would be up to Tony to decide how often he was going to visit, because…Well, he _had _to visit. He couldn't just meet his son once. What kind of person would he be if he said hello and goodbye within three days? Their talks hadn't even solved anything.

If they decided that they would need someone else to care for Peter, that would be a little harder. They hadn't dropped any names, so maybe they were considering a foster home? As in, strangers. Well, maybe not. Cousins? Distant family? In any case, someone who wasn't mentioned in Mary's letters and would have to have the whole situation explained to them before Tony could even think of visiting. Meaning Tony would have to trust Mary's friends to trust whoever they chose. No matter what happened, he was more than obligated to support Peter somehow..

Did Tony have any say in who took care of Peter? Probably not.

Did Tony have the right to be uncomfortable with strangers taking care of Peter? Probably not.

Did Tony forget that May, Richard, and Ben were already strangers, so what was the difference either way? Probably.

It was really hard to plan the rest of his life and Peter's. He could ask Obie for help, he guessed, but he still wasn't sure if Obie had gotten over his sourness about this whole situation.

He didn't let his pondering ruin the lunch. He nodded, joked, asked questions, all in all functioned like an actual human being while he, May, and Richard were together. It must not have been enough, though, because he noticed the looks May was giving him. Not wary, not annoyed, but knowing. Maybe his face was neon-lighting his thought process.

They ate their unauthentic Italian, tipped the waiter, and walked outside together with Tony's head carefully turned toward them. Richard unfolded his walking stick and tried to hail down a taxi. They would be going to Central Park to meet up with Ben and Peter.

May lagged behind until Richard was out of earshot. With a glance either way down the street, she told him, very seriously, "Listen. I'm not saying you need to know how this is going to go right here, right now, but you need to figure it out soon."

Tony's lips pursed behind the mask. "Yeah. I hear you."

"I know I probably said the wrong thing, but we're going to try everything we can to make it work. I can get another job, we'll cut down on whatever we need for the bills, we'll do anything, okay? I'm just saying, _realistically_, that it might not work. We hate that, but we have to acknowledge it." May had her eyes pinned hard on Tony's. "If it doesn't work, we're going to find the best damn people we can get. Maybe not someone we know, but someone more than capable."

Tony swallowed hard and nodded still. He realized—not then, but before—that he really did wish Mary and Ben could care for Peter. A foster family might be able to give him a normal life, but they wouldn't have the presence May and Ben had. _Everyone needs constants, _Mary had said. Even she'd agreed that it wouldn't work, and only begged for Peter not to be abandoned.

So why, why, why, did it feel like doing what she said would still abandon him?

Tony straightened up his posture—he didn't know he was slouching—and took a deep breath. The tension didn't ease, but it became more bearable somehow. Even May could see him relax just so, and some relief spread across her features. It wouldn't occur to Tony until later that May was searching for proof that he was serious; that he cared for Peter's wellbeing and wasn't just trying to ease a guilty conscience.

"Whatever happens," and every word came out in careful enunciation, "I'm going to trust you guys. All I'm asking is that, if it's not you or Ben or Rich, let me know."

May nodded. Richard had hailed down a cab and was calling for her, but she kept her attention dead on Tony. "Okay."

"I'm not going to abandon him."

"Okay."

May and Richard hopped into their taxi and pulled away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Konoewpl: **Thanks a bunch! Yeah, there is a little issue on pride in the matter. From May, in particular. Peter's living situation will be discussed more in the coming chapters, so stay tuned! :)

**Belbelanne: **Obadiah can't be trusted with anything and them's just the facts.

* * *

Sitting in front of a Comfort Inn window, listening to distant car honks and cruiser sirens, watching rain splatter on the grimy Queens street down below, all while knowing that the mother of his child was being laid to rest at the same moment was one of the worst feelings Tony has ever experienced in his lifetime.

All that he'd received from the others was a single text from Ben very early that morning: _Funeral is 11:00, Simmons Funeral Home. _No questions, no assumptions, just point-blank. Tony hadn't even texted him back, because he had no idea how to.

Obie and Happy at least picked up that he wouldn't be in high spirits that day. Apart from breakfast, he'd neither seen nor heard from either of them. He wanted to say that he'd at least done something productive so far, but besides watching the news and cable television, the last few hours have been pointless.

Once, just once, for no reason whatsoever, he used his computer to search Mary's name online. He almost immediately found a result in an article titled "Queens Woman Killed in Three-Car Crash".

_A car accident early Saturday morning resulted in the death of one woman and injured two others, police said._

_Mary Fitzpatrick, 31, was riding in a taxi cab on Merrick Boulevard by Roy Wilkins Park in St. Albans at approximately 9:20 am when the vehicle was struck by a Nissan Altima._

_Witnesses state that the driver of the vehicle, later identified as Fredrick Bass, had sped through a red light at almost twice the speed limit and struck the left side of the taxi, where Fitzpatrick was seated. The force of the collision pushed the taxi into a nearby vehicle. No passengers within the third vehicle were injured._

_Bass—who later confessed to driving under the influence—and the driver of the taxi, Miguel Herrara, were both injured in the crash. Herrara was driven to the Jamaica Hospital Medical Center to treat a broken leg. Emergency responders pronounced Fitzpatrick dead on the scene, killed instantaneously._

_Bass suffered minor injuries and was arrested for reckless driving, and faces charges of driving under the influence of alcohol and vehicular manslaughter._

That was it. Four short paragraphs, nothing else, no mention of Peter or Mary's friends. Four short paragraphs, and they somehow managed to dig a hollow pit in his chest that wouldn't go away.

One of the cons about being him, he guessed, was that he never stopped thinking even when he wanted to. He really tried to stop his mind from going on its path, but it was no good. He couldn't keep the images of Mary lying forever still in a coffin, or being lowered deep into the earth, or Peter dressed in a little black suit and weeping, weeping, weeping, out of his head. He thought that maybe later he would go to pay his respects and—well—he didn't know—give his last goodbye?

The only bright side of the morning thus far was that they finally got the results from the paternity test. Plot twist: Peter was Tony's son. Obie was probably nonplussed when he heard that bit of news.

The rain's stay was short, and at maybe twelve, sunlight finally started to shimmer down on the wet pavement. Ironically, Tony found his mind clearing up, too. It was still heavy, but at least he could get himself back into the present. He couldn't spend the whole day locked up in his hotel room feeling sorry for himself. Plus, it was Queens. He hadn't been back for a while and there was no harm in making the best of his time. It'd been an especially long time since he'd been back to Flushing Meadows, and he'd never before been without having to worry about camera flashes before. Why didn't he go incognito more often?

A shower, a change of clothes, a ball cap, a cough mask, a traffic-filled taxi ride, and two heads-up texts to Obie and Happy later saw him finally walking through Corona Park. The November chill had turned the trees gray and the leaves brown, but the freshly-clear sky made up for it. Plus, the quiet. He'd had quiet all morning, but not walk-through-a-park-by-yourself quiet. Listening to the distant sounds of children playing tag was miles above a police siren blasting past his window at two in the morning.

The wind was cool, the grass was still green, and Tony walked for so long his feet started to ache before he'd even realized it. Hoofing his way to the Unisphere wasn't that hard. Blessedly, the autumn rain had kept a crowd at bay, so now it was just stragglers and the occasional jogger.

He managed to sit down on a bench just as the fountains started up. At least he had new scenery to brood at.

It was as good as time as ever to think about what he was going to do, and how he had no idea what he was going to do. The best case scenario was that Ben and May would be able to take Peter in. In that case, after taking care of all Peter's money issues, he would just figure out his visiting schedule. He'd have to come on the major holidays—Christmas, New Year's, Thanksgiving—and then trips between that.

It wouldn't be that hard, especially since his holiday plans consisted of being with Rhodey and/or Obie, drinking, going to a big blow-out party, etc. He'd have to bring gifts at Christmas and, oh, Peter's birthday! They'd have to be _great _presents, too, to make up for…everything. Options for going out were limited if he wasn't in some kind of disguise, so he'd have to research what places took anonymous and private bookings. They could hit up the Macy's parade. Halloween would be a great time, too. Parents went trick-or-treating with their kids in full costume all the time. Not only that, but Tony could get them the best Halloween costumes ever seen on God's green Earth.

If he couldn't make it to Queens, there was always the option of getting Peter somewhere else. Ben, May, and Richard could be invited, too. The Fourth of July would be a great time for a beach resort, they could go anywhere in the world for New Year's, and hell, any time was a good time for Disney World and…

and…

and…

…and who was he even kidding.

Every time he saw Peter, his kid would be a little older, a little taller, a little smarter, a little _different. _Tony wouldn't be seeing him grow, he'd be seeing him change. Every visit would have time just for recapping what had last happened in Peter's life. Phone calls wouldn't make up for it.

Tony had no right, but he wanted to see Peter grow up, and wasn't that ironic? About four days ago, he thought the world was ending, and now the idea of not seeing his son regularly was making him anxious.

He knew why, too. He'd probably known for a while and had just been too cowardly to even think it.

Tony didn't want to be a father like Howard Stark.

Oh, he would never put Peter through the absolute hell of being compared to someone he'd never met his whole. It didn't matter if it was the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan or whoever the hell else; Tony lived through that hell for years and it still left a bile taste in his mouth. And he'd never make Peter feel like a _failure. _He'd known Peter for not even seventy-two hours and he already knew he was a great kid, a smart kid. He wouldn't shoot down his every accomplishment and insult him to his face under the excuse of "constructive criticism".

He'd be checking off every other box, though. Not being around when Peter needed him? Check. Making every moment together feel like an awkward business meeting? Check. Keeping Peter forever asking why his father never did, never does, or ever will stay? Check.

God, his life had changed so much in less than a week. Tony never thought he'd be a father, so he was _woefully _unprepared to be one, and he had nothing to go by.

Suddenly, he saw pink.

"Picked it up from the gift store."

Obie waved it under his masked nose until he finally took it. It was a little dome of glass on a wooden base, no longer than his middle finger. A branch of full cherry blossoms was frozen within. Still had the price sticker on it and everything.

Tony huffed a laugh while Obie sat down beside him. The fountains died down for a break, leaving the Unisphere completely unconcealed.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Obie asked. Tony was very, very unused to seeing him outside of a business suit, let alone in denim pants and a T-shirt. No one would recognize Obadiah Stane like that.

"You get three guesses, and the first two don't count."

Obie snorted and leaned back against the wood. "Alright. Well, let me start and we'll see if that gets some conversation out of you. I wanted to apologize for being such a jackass."

"Want-_ed? _Past tense?"

"Alright, smartass." He was almost smiling as he said it, though. "I'm serious. I was being insensitive and I'm sure I was making you feel like crap. I humbly extend an olive branch."

"So eloquent." Despite his scoff, some relief filled him. He'd already decided to just ignore Obie's bad mood, but finally having some backing from the person he'd been expecting it from to begin with helped. "What was getting you so riled up, anyway? Jealous?"

Obie just shook his head. "I don't know, Tony. I try to keep my cool as much as I can, but this is a rough time we're in. The Jericho Project, the media, the war, it's like we can't sneeze without Time putting it on the front cover!"

"Like you've got to tell m—oh, hey, pretzels! Let's go."

Obie didn't even protest as Tony stood up and beelined it for the cart across the way. He just fell in step beside him and continued, "If we were different people in a different life, I would have congratulated you as soon as I found out. Would have bought you all the 'It's a Boy!' banners you wanted. But we are who we are, and if we get caught even whispering the word 'son', we get caught in a landslide."

Tony was fishing for bills in his pocket, and didn't look up from his counting when he replied, "What's that to us, though? From our end, that's just some more bathroom gossiping to deal with."

"Ah, come on, Tony. You know more than anyone people will find whatever way they can to judge you. The fact is that you have a kid you never knew about, but the opinion will be that you're a deadbeat who can't take care of a kid, so how can you protect all of the United States?"

"I hear you, but I've given up on caring. Plus, I might even get some more nicknames. Have you heard about 'Merchant of Death'? Tell me that's not an amazing name."

With the vendor close enough, Obie quieted for just a minute. Tony forked over a few bills, the glass box was opened, and they were both handed hot-and-fresh salted pretzels, praise the Lord. Obie waited until they were a good length out of earshot (and until he had a good mouthful) to keep going.

"It wouldn't just be a personal thing, though. It's like a seed that gets planted, first it's just soccer moms gossiping at the hair salon, then it's hosts on talk shows that only come on Sunday nights, then it gets higher and higher until our partners start questioning you. I'd like nothing more to just kick 'em in the teeth and tell them to piss off, but that wouldn't be an option, would it?"

Honestly, Tony was only half-listening, because he just realized that it's very hard to eat a pretzel with a coughing mask. The only thing he could do was pinch some off and stuff it underneath, which was worth it.

"So you were stressed out?" With a mouthful of pretzel, the last word came out as _ow._

"More than I like admitting. I'd ask how you weren't, but honestly, you've looked halfway between panic attack and constipation for the past few days."

"_Please _write poetry. Anyway…Guess I was just more worried about Peter. Literally since the second I started to breathe, I've had cameras flashing in my face and microphones shoved down my throat. People I'd never met a day in my life acted like aunts and uncles visiting on the holidays. But at least I became a _person. _I don't know if Peter would ever get that blessing. People would start thinking his first name is 'Tony', middle name 'Stark's', last name 'Son'."

Obie nodded along with no rebuke, his brow even creasing together in agreement. "Oh, yeah. God, that poor kid."

"You haven't talked to him yet, have you?"

"I asked if he liked any sports."

"What'd he say?"

Obie opened his eyes wide and shrugged his shoulders.

Tony chuckled. "He's smart. Can't get more than ten words out of him at once, but he's smart. May said he loves to make people laugh."

"You know, his birthday was only a month ago. I was thinking, if you want to really make a good impression, you can make up for it."

"Didn't I already get him an R2D2?"

"Hear me out: _an actual R2D2._"

Tony laughed aloud at that. He was feeling significantly better already. He may or may not have actually been considering that idea, too.

The two of them went on in silence for a stretch, making a full half-circle around the Unisphere before they started to break off from the turn. The sun was at its highest now, probably, what, twelve? One? The funeral was probably over by then; they may or may not have returned home already.

"I was thinking about maybe helping May and Ben out with Peter. May said she wasn't too big on the 'charity', but I think I can insist."

Obie crumpled up the napkin in his hand and tossed it into a nearby garbage bin. "That would be best. They're already family, right?"

"Right." That last comment gave him inexplicable and probably unjustified offense, so Tony just took it and went on. "What I'm really wondering is how I'm going to go about visiting and all that."

"Huh. You going to visit?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Somehow visiting him regularly sounds a hell of a lot easier than preparing a 'Goodbye Forever' speech."

"Mm-hm." Obie's jaw worked side to side for a moment. More cogs, less serious ones and not as heavy, were spinning behind his eyes again. "Not going to be easy. You're going to have to come up with a lot of cover stories. I don't know if anyone will buy you going on vacation to Honolulu for Father's Day."

As if Tony would be spending Father's Day with the kid. Father's Day was for fath—well. Uh…

"Thing is, I'm trying to figure out how to make it as regular as possible. I don't want Peter to think I'm just coming because it's holiday tradition, you know?"

He wasn't looking at Obie while he said it, so the silence that followed confused him. Obie was watching him with eyes half-narrowed and a mouth that was neither smiling nor frowning. It was impossible to pin what he was thinking.

"What?"

"You're taking this very seriously."

"Didn't we just have a conversation about how we've _both _been taking this very seriously?"

"I'm talking in moral terms, not business terms. First you just…_know _that he's your kid, then you _have _to see him, and now you're thinking about how you're going to see him for the rest of forever."

"He's my kid, Obes. Don't know what else to say."

"You remember when Hobbs found out he had that daughter with the woman from Nepal?" Hobbs was a member of the board, a man who was all business and transactions until he left the building. Once he had a beer in hand and 2004 New Year's glasses on, he would say anything and everything. "He didn't sweat a drop, he just sent enough for a college fund and some pretty dresses. End of story."

"I'm not Hobbs."

"Yeah, that's what's surprising me."

"So you thought I was going to slide over a couple grand and let that be it?"

"Tony, the first thing you did after we found out someone strapped a bomb to your car in Philadelphia was go to a bar and order a Daiquiri. Can you blame me?"

"Happy carried me away like a princess to a castle. I felt safe!"

Tony crumpled up his own napkin, and Obie groaned.

"Alright," he went on. He and Tony both ducked their heads when a jogger passed by a little too close for comfort. "You'll help Ben and May take care of Peter. You'll visit…let's say twice a month, not including holidays. We'll map out the schedule so we don't have to cancel too much. If they need anything, they'll have straight access to your phone number. We'll have a lot of NDAs signed. Happy ever after."

"Yeah." Tony nodded. "That sounds good."

"Alright?"

"Alright."

"All good?"

"All good."

Obie suddenly pressed a hand against his chest to stop him. He still had that not-smile, not-frown expression on his face.

"So," said Obie, "why are you still upset?"

Tony tried to shrug, but he probably just jerked his body instead. Trying to avoid Obie's eyes just made the older man gaze him down harder. "Can't really think of anything that's going to make me click my heels right now."

"No, no. We found a solution, you still think there's a problem. Spill."

Trapped in a corner. Tony huffed, and the sound alone seemed to please Obie. Sometimes Obie's ability to read him like an open book was a blessing. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass.

"I'll say something I don't say often: I don't know." Obie let him keep walking while he rambled on. "I've broken this down to the most black-and-white, step-by-step formula that I can, and it still bothers me."

"Tony, you didn't know he even _existed _until a few days ago. It's not like you abandoned him—"

"This isn't about the past. I can't change the past. I know I didn't abandon him _then,_ but I cannot map out a single scenario where I avoid abandoning him _now._"

"I shouldn't have used the word 'abandoned'. That's not what this is. It sounds like you're throwing him to the wolves, or something."

"You don't know what's going through his head right now."

"You do?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Then educate me."

And Tony did, succinctly, his voice rising just a hair more with each word until he was almost shouting at the end.

"He's probably gone his whole life wondering why his dad wasn't around, and now he has an answer: his dad didn't know he existed. His dad doesn't know his favorite color, or his favorite book, or his favorite anything. But no problem, right? Now Dad's here, so now they can finally get started on some good old father-son bonding, right? Nope! Any and all excitement that he's worked up is now going to be popped like a balloon, because guess what? Dad's not staying. He's just visiting, and he's going to visit again, but it's never going to _count, _it's never going to be _real. _He's never going to be able to see him without making sure his schedule isn't full first. He'll be so distant that Peter's going to be confused about what the word 'father' means, because he thought a father was someone who stuck around and loved you and told you so, not some guy who 'stops by every now and then'!"

Obie listened along until he was finished, and didn't speak for a moment after. Embarrassment took its unfamiliar hold on Tony quickly, and he pulled himself together. He was not about to have a breakdown about his daddy issues on a trip to fix his…daddy issues.

When Obie did answer, it was very calmly with a little lace of satisfaction. "So this _is _a personal thing, just so we're clear?"

Tony marched on ahead, and he swore he almost heard a laugh. He took back what he'd been thinking before. Obie's presence was not comforting him in the slightest. In fact, as Obie stepped up his pace just enough to fall in line with him again, he felt his blood pressure rise a few digits.

"First of all, you have _got _to stop acting like Howard was the worst monster who ever lived."

"I'm _not _having this conver—"

"Second of all, I am going to ask you—as your friend—to please accept that there's nothing else you can do here." Obie's voice had become softer. If his intent was to calm him down, it worked well enough. Still embarrassed, Tony felt some of the heat cool in his veins. Overreaction wasn't the way to go here. "You didn't ask to have a son, you didn't _know _you had a son. You feel like there are so many expectations you have to meet, but you're the one who made them up to begin with. Peter will be fine, Tony, and safe. He'll grow older and he'll understand everything better."

There went the last of Tony's fight.

A sudden fatigue fell on him, running his hand down his face. Obie reached out and clasped his shoulder in comfort. The weight he was carrying on his shoulders was eased by the weight on his shoulder. Crap. If a dad-grab on the shoulder eased him up this much, he might consider paying someone to friggin' _snuggle _him.

"I don't envy you. This is a really unfair situation and it's no one's fault. A solution is a solution, just because it doesn't feel good doesn't mean it won't work. Look on the bright side of things: you're setting him up for a _hell _of a good life. He's never going to have to worry about money, he's going to have great people taking care of him, and he comes from the biggest brain of the modern day."

"Yeah. Yeah…" Tony ran a hand down his face again, and Obie's hand squeezed a little more. "Sorry. I guess I just needed to vent a little."

"You won't find any blame from me. I'm just surprised you haven't blown a gasket already. I'm going to help you every step of the way, remember that. We're going to set this kid up so he's one step away from living at the mansion."

"Perfect. 'If only we weren't us', right? Then maybe he actually _could._"

He and Obie scoffed at the same time, the latter following with, "Yeah, right."

"I just mean if we didn't have to worry about the press and everything. I'm joking, Obes. It's not going to happen."

"Yeah, I know you're joking."

Tony squinted at him, but all Obie did was tilt his head a little to the side and ask, "What?"

"Now I feel like you're the one not saying what he wants to say."

"Why are we getting worked up over a joke?"

"I'm not worked up. Are you worked up? I'm just curious."

"Tony. _Anthony. _Come _on._" Obie waved his arms out. He was finally smiling, but he didn't seem amused so much as defensive. It was very dry. "You could be a random Joe in the suburbs and it wouldn't happen. Let's be realistic."

"Realistic about what?"

Obie's arms and his smile dropped at the same time. "I'm not going to say it."

"Say what?"

"Nope; this is getting too serious. You said we were joking."

"We are joking."

"Are we?"

"Yes, now tell me the punchline."

There was a long, _long _moment of Obie just staring him down, not moving an inch. Tony urging him on just made him blink. Add 'very confused' to Tony's descriptors for that moment, right beneath 'inexplicably annoyed'.

"You can't take care of Peter," Obie finally sighed.

"I know that, I was talking in theoretical. This entire conversation has been an up-and-down rollercoaster, and I'd really appreciate it if we could get on the same page here."

"The 'page' that I'm on is that theoretically or otherwise, you can't and couldn't take care of Peter."

Tony's head snaked back. "Why?"

"You know why, but let's get on that 'same page'. Raising a kid is a pretty big deal and you're not cut out for it. Not because you're busy or famous, it's just because you're you. I'm really not trying to insult you here, Tony. I'm just stating facts. It doesn't matter."

Outrage—outrage?—sparked in Tony's chest and spread down his torso. If not for the mask, Obie would have seen his teeth gritting together behind his lips. He couldn't even get his own thoughts organized, his mouth was running faster than his mind was.

"You just _decided _that?"

"I didn't _decide _anything. I didn't _decide _the sky is blue, and I'm not deciding that you wouldn't be able to—"

"Well, no, because that's for me to decide, isn't it?"

Obie deflated at long last. It was like the past few minutes had aged him twenty years, even his voice dipping low in exhaustion. "Alright. You say what you think, then."

Tony agreed.

That was probably why he was so angry.

He wouldn't be able to take care of Peter and he already knew that. It wasn't Stark Industries or his busy schedule, it was just him and him alone. He was immature, irresponsible, and a whole lot of other negative i-words. Even if he'd known Peter since he was born, raised him from the moment he first opened his eyes, he wouldn't have been good for him. Not being a father like Howard Stark didn't make him a good father by default.

But Tony always had a childish part of him that couldn't be killed, and that childish part just didn't like someone saying what he knew out loud. Yes, Obadiah, he was well aware that he'd be a shit father. Doesn't give you the okay to say that.

While he was stewing there with steam puffing out of his ears, Obie just waiting for him to wave his little white flag, Tony thought about the horrid experience that it would be to be his kid—always feeling unimportant, unwanted, unloved. That wouldn't change no matter how many birthday parties they would throw, or how many Christmas mornings they'd have, or how many A+ papers Peter brought home…or how many first days of school he'd go through…or…or…

"I would."

Obie was already walking away. "Yeah, sure."

"I would. Not trying to brag here, I just think I'd be a pretty fantastic dad."

"Mm-hm."

"I know it'll break your heart to hear it, but I don't need your approval. Me and him will get along just fine without it."

Ten feet away now, Obie just threw a look over his shoulder. "Who's 'him'?"

"Peter."

"Yeah, you don't need my approval to go see your kid. I'm not really into this conversation anymore, sorry. I have stuff I have to take care of." Obie pulled his phone from his pocket, flipped it open. "Hey, since we're in NYC, why don't we find a good pizza joint? I saw about fifty on the way over here."

"I don't need your approval to take care of him."

"It's not happening, so it doesn't matter. Let's try 'Big Joe's'. Sounds promising."

"No, it's happening. You should feel proud, you've changed my mind in ten minutes. New record."

Obie had been clicking the buttons on his phone to text Happy, and was murmuring it under his breath, _"Big…Joe's…meet in…thirty…" _ He didn't even so much as look up at Tony. "Changed your mind about what?"

Tony walked past him.

"Peter's going to live with me."

He made it a good twenty feet ahead before he heard Obie's voice call, _"What?"_

"It's not like I don't have the room. You go on ahead and save me a couple slices, alright? I have to go have a talk with the Parkers."

That wasn't the end of it, of course. Obie marched after him and kept marching until Tony found sanctuary in a taxi cab. He tried every trick he could, from pretending like they were still joking to the good old _"Ah, come on. You're just saying things." _Tony, feeling simultaneously better and worse than he'd felt for a while now, didn't pop a vein once. Calm and collected, it only made Obie more annoyed by the second, until he was huffing steam when Tony shut the door on him.

It didn't matter. Tony had already made up his mind.


End file.
